


Trust: Handle With Care

by ceterisparibus



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cat, Catholicism, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Legal Drama, Matt Murdock Needs a Hug, Matt is a Lawyer, Past Sexual Abuse, Police Brutality, Psychology, Religion, Sexual Abuse, Whump, we need some literal fluff here, yes there will be a cat eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:22:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 35
Words: 159,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26991343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceterisparibus/pseuds/ceterisparibus
Summary: Matt and Foggy's new client is a mother whose son was sexually abused by a priest.
Relationships: Matt Murdock/Karen Page
Comments: 732
Kudos: 420





	1. Psalm 82:3

**Author's Note:**

> So I started watching the Netflix documentary "The Keepers." Between that and my own research, I've been...well, wanting to cry, and punch people, and also go out and love people as best I can. But I've also been thinking about analyzing the sexual abuse perpetuated by Catholic priests through the lens of Daredevil. So...that's what this is.
> 
> This is dark, guys. I want to still shine a light on hope, and love, and all the good things that are still true in this world, but...it's still dark. It's also an AU in that, for this fic, Matt was abused by a priest as well. Not Father Lantom, of course. (In fact, it's also an AU in that Father Lantom gets to live post Season 3 because this fic would be too heavy without him.) Nothing will be graphic for the sake of being graphic, but this fic won't shy away from some of the realities of this kind of abuse. So please, please mind the tags, let me know if I've missed any, and take care of yourselves! <3

Matt’s alarm chimed loudly in his ear, pulling him out of deep, dreamless sleep. Letting out a low groan, he forced his eyes open and mentally took inventory of himself, trying to anticipate how bad the day was likely to be, trying to decide if he should skip breakfast in favor of meditation. There were thick bruises on his arms from blocking a swinging crowbar last night, and his hip was sore from rolling on it wrong when he overshot a landing, and the skin around his right eye felt a little inflamed, and…he shifted, catching the tang of blood in the air on the back of his tongue.

Right. Someone had managed to nick his ribs. It was rare that a knife could get through Melvin’s suit, but every once in a while, someone got a lucky angle. He’d been so sure last night that it hadn’t needed stitches, and now it was too late to put them in.

It really wasn’t that bad, though. Deep, but not wide.

Still. Meditation seemed like a good idea.

Gingerly getting out of bed, Matt shrugged on a hoodie to beat back the fall chill and padded into his living room. He nudged the coffee table back with his foot, clearing some space. Then he settled down on the floor, legs crossed, back of his hands resting lightly on his knees.

Deep breaths in, and out. Focusing on each part of his body in turn. Relaxing all the lingering tension there. Noting all the areas of strength. Remembering last night’s mistakes as well as its successes. Letting himself be objective, but letting himself be a little bit proud of himself, too.

_But You, Lord, are a shield around me, my glory, the One who lifts my head high._

Sometimes he felt closer to God during morning meditation than he did at church. The apartment was empty except for him, but somehow, he didn’t feel alone.

~

“What did you do, walk into a brick wall?”

Matt’s feet stuttered to a halt in the doorway at Nelson, Murdock, and Page. Foggy was walking across the room to get to the kitchen, but he’d stopped to stare at Matt. Matt wasn’t sure why, though. His suit covered all the bruises, and it definitely covered the cut on his side. He risked a tentative sniff, but no, he hadn’t bled through anything. He hadn’t even bled through the bandage taped over the wound. So what…?

“Your _face_ ,” Foggy groaned.

Karen popped out of her office, dressed in form-fitting slacks and…not high heels. She was dressing more practically to accommodate her PI work, and Matt was a little bit fascinated by the change. She was a little bit fascinated by him, too, if the way her temperature rose just a little was any indication. Matt knew he shouldn’t, but he prized each and every tiny reaction she had to him, even though she’d shown zero signs of wanting to do anything about it.

“Oh,” she said. “Matt’s face.”

“We have a client coming in,” Foggy complained, “and my partner looks like a _racoon_.”

Matt raised his eyebrows, but made sure not to give himself away by reaching up to touch the skin around his eye. “I’m pretty sure that’s an exaggeration.”

“It’s half an exaggeration,” Karen informed him lightly, coming closer. “But only because your other eye is fine. This one, though…” She winced in sympathy— _not_ pity, he told himself sternly—as she gently tipped his face to the side, getting a better look.

“Help?” he asked, quirking his lips in his best rueful-yet-charming grin.

He couldn’t sense her eyeroll, but he _knew_ it was there. She grabbed her bag. “Lucky for you, I’ve got extra foundation. C’mon, Daredevil.”

As she towed him into the firm’s tiny bathroom, he let his grin become a more genuine smile. Her hand was holding his and she wasn’t actually annoyed with him, and he was happy.

“So unfair,” he heard Foggy lament under his breath. “You come in too beat up to be presentable, and you get _rewarded_ for it.”

Matt didn’t even try to argue with him. Karen was nudging him into the bathroom, and Matt felt very much like he had the high ground.

“Hang on,” she murmured once he was inside, getting out a little…miniature wallet…thing. Matt wasn’t sure what it was, actually. He remembered seeing women open little makeup containers on TV when he was a kid, but what were they called? Contacts? Compacts? Something.

There was a small, satisfying _snap_ as she opened it, and then Matt sneezed at the puff of particles in the air.

“Hold still,” she chided, but there was laughter in her voice as she dabbed at the powder. “Close your eyes.” The next thing he felt was something fluffy brushing over his face. The cool powder felt good on the injury, even though he was sure it would be itching in about an hour. It was worth it to have her this close to him.

The silence between them was comfortable, really, although he was maybe a little bit concerned that, from this close, she’d somehow be able to…read his mind, or something. “We, uh…we have the same skin tone?” he asked, just to start a conversation.

He immediately wanted to roll his eyes at himself. What a stupid question.

“Ah, no, actually.” Her voice was quiet as she leaned in, brushing more powder under his eye. “I’m a little paler.”

Which meant she’d gotten this foundation just for him? Matt wasn’t sure exactly what to do with that information. His first reaction was a flush of embarrassed guilt. Why did he have to be so _needy?_ But, then, he was really trying to be better at…having friends.

Which, as Maggie kept informing him, generally involved allowing his friends to occasionally do nice things for him. Like buying makeup and applying it to his black eye in the office bathroom.

“Hmm.” Karen leaned back, tilting his head this way and that. Then she gave a self-satisfied nod. “Okay, you’re good to go.”

“Am I pretty?” he asked, just to catch her reaction.

Her heartrate skipped a bit, but her voice was an even drawl: “You look like you haven’t slept in a week, but if that’s your thing…”

“I slept,” he protested, although he was secretly relieved when she didn’t ask him how much as she loaded the supplies back into her bag.

“Don’t let my kindness be an excuse for you to be careless with your face,” she warned. “And just so you know, not even I can make a split lip look normal, so be careful.”

“Always am.” Despite his best intentions, he reached out, catching her wrist as she tried to slide past him to the door. “Karen. Thank you.”

He could feel her heartbeat fluttering in her wrist under his hand. “Sure,” she said, and he was pleased to note that her voice was fractionally breathier. “No problem. Happy to help. Least I can do in exchange for you, y’know, literally saving my life.”

He opened his mouth to talk about how she’d saved his life, in so many ways, but she slipped out of his grasp and opened the door.

“Before Foggy gets suspicious,” she explained, a little awkwardly.

What was wrong with Foggy getting suspicious, Matt wanted to know.

But he followed her out anyway, pretending to be blind to Foggy’s looks and deaf to Foggy’s knowing hums.

“Okay, guys.” Karen pulled her bag over her shoulder. “I’m off. Gonna go interview Mr. Dunkin’s neighbors about his dog.”

“You’re just hoping for a chance to pet said dog,” Foggy accused.

“ _Excuse_ me, I am trying to help him _keep_ his dog despite the fight at the dog park. We all know the chihuahua started it, and the owner is just vindictive. Thor wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“What do you think Thor thinks now that his name is a trending dog name?” Foggy wondered.

Matt thought about it. “He probably takes it as a compliment.”

“And how would _you_ know?” Foggy demanded, grabbing a pen and clicking it aggressively, ready to take notes for the record.

“And that’s my cue to leave,” Karen said brightly, heading out the door before Foggy could start once again trying to trap Matt into admitting he’d met the Avengers. Why Foggy was so convinced, Matt had no idea. Everyone knew Daredevil worked alone.

~

Their new client was a middle-aged woman who arrived dressed in jeans and a knit sweater, clutching an oversized purse. Her hair was freshly washed, falling in tight ringlets to her shoulders, but the scent of salt clung to her. She’d been crying. And drinking. And not eating. And mostly crying.

“Hello, Ms. McCarty. We understand you’re worried about your son?” Foggy asked. Because aside from the fact that she was a single mother, that was literally all they knew about Hannah McCarty. Normally, clients gave them a bit more information over the phone before scheduling the first meeting. And if clients didn’t volunteer that information, they’d ask for it. But this mother had refused to share more details, simply imploring them to meet with her.

“Yes, um…” There was a slight tremulousness to her voice, so slight that it could’ve been a natural part of how she spoke. But Matt didn’t think it was. “I just…I need to talk to someone.”

“That’s what we’re here for,” Matt said, gesturing into the conference room.

Hannah moved into the room, feet dragging somewhat, but hesitated between the various seats available to her until Matt subtly tapped the back of one of the chairs at the head of the table. Then she sat quickly.

“Can we get you anything?” Foggy asked. “Tea, or…I think we have some homemade cobbler from another client. Peach. Happy to share.”

“No, thank you, I just…” She held her purse tightly in her lap. “If you don’t mind, I really don’t think I can _handle_ , um, pleasantries. Right now.”

Matt felt a stab of protectiveness. He didn’t even know this woman, but she was trying so hard to keep it together in an office with two strangers. “Of course.” He sat down along with Foggy along the side of the table, both making sure not to sit directly across from her. He folded his hands on the table. “Tell us whatever you need to tell us.”

“My son was…” She stopped. Took a breath. “My son was raped.”

The word fell heavily into the middle of the room. Foggy’s let out a quiet exhale, laden with emotion that Matt was sure he would keep tucked away for the remainder of this meeting. As for Matt, he moved his right hand under the table and curled it into a fist, feeling the sting of his split knuckles.

Hannah lifted her chin. “And I want justice against the bastard who did it.”

Matt couldn’t agree more. He was already nodding even as he clenched his jaw.

But Foggy hesitated. “We’re…we’re defense attorneys, Ms. McCarty. I mean, we’re not prosecutors. If prosecution is what you want.”

“I know,” she said quickly, sniffing. “I know. But my friend, Estephania? You helped her. She wouldn’t stop talking about how you went out of your way to…to take care of her. Even beyond her legal problems. She trusts you. I thought she was insane, trusting lawyers, but…” She tucked her hair behind her ears and sat up a little straighter. “I just thought it would, um…I thought it would be easier to talk about it with you first.”

“Have you gone to the police?” Matt asked.

She shrank a little in her seat. “No. Not yet. I just…like I said, I wanted to talk to you first. Is that…is that bad?”

“That’s completely fine,” Matt reassured her. “We’ll help you through as much of this process as we can. All right?”

She was nodding before he’d even finished speaking, eyes watering. “Thank you. Thank you so much, I don’t—I don’t know what I’m even supposed to be _doing_. You never—you never think it’ll happen to you, you know? Not your _child_ …” She broke off, one hand pressed over her mouth.

Foggy gave her a box of tissues. “It’s all right, you’re doing everything right. Just take your time.”

She blew her nose. Then, for about two minutes straight, she fought to take deep breaths. Finally, she set her shoulders back. “Okay. Okay. I’m so sorry. Just…what do I need to do?”

“Can you start with telling us what happened?” Matt asked, softening his voice. “As many facts as you can.”

She wet her lips. “I—I can try.”

“We’ll ask questions along the way,” Matt went on, “but this isn’t an interrogation. We’re just trying to get as much information as possible, but you can stop whenever you need to, as many times as you need to. All right?”

She nodded again.

Foggy withdrew a notepad. He was supposed to focus on taking notes, while Matt was supposed to focus on asking questions. It was a system they’d worked out while they were still in law school, and Foggy only appreciated it more when he realized the advantage that Matt’s senses gave him in choosing which statement of a client’s to zero in on and just the right question to ask.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Matt said gently.

Swallowing, Hannah clasped her hands on the table. “Okay. My son, his name’s Samuel. He’s eleven. And a half. Um…he first started acting…different…about six months ago. At first, I thought it was just…pre-teen moodiness, you know? All of a sudden, he wasn’t doing any of the things he used to do. Not hanging out with his friends. And his grades, they all dropped. His teachers were worried. Said he stopped engaging in class, was missing assignments…” She twisted her hands together. “I asked if he was okay a couple times, but he always just said he was fine, and he’s never lied to me before…”

Matt tilted his head slightly. How would she know?

“And I didn’t want him to think I doubted him, you know?” Her voice took on a pleading tone, like she was begging them not to judge her.

Matt was reserving judgment, actually, but he nodded reassuringly. “Of course.”

“But eventually…” her voice cracked. “Two days ago, it was obvious he was hurt. He was, um…” She stopped to take a shaky breath. “Not walking right. I took him to the hospital…and that’s when I found out…” She trailed off into silence, yet left no doubt as to what she’d found out.

Matt gave her a second before asking, “Did they do a rape kit?”

Foggy held his pen at the ready.

She shook her head. “No. No, um, Sammy…he didn’t want that. He didn’t want to admit to what happened. He…” A tear escaped; she hurried to wipe it away. “He _still_ won’t admit what happened.”

“Do you have any idea why that might be?” Matt asked quietly.

He wasn’t expecting much. If the boy wasn’t talking, he wasn’t talking.

Hannah nodded, but now there was a hint of a snarl in the back of her throat. “Because it was his priest who did it.”

Matt’s stomach dropped. He opened his mouth, but the next question died on his tongue. Silence stretched out. Or maybe it didn’t. He didn’t know how long they’d been sitting there since she said those words. His ears were ringing. It was hard to concentrate.

“Um…” Foggy cleared his throat. Was he looking at Matt? Matt couldn’t tell. “How do you know it was his priest?”

“Process of elimination,” Hannah answered, voice plummeting into frigid temperatures. “I asked Sammy about everyone. His teachers. His coaches. Family members. His friends’ _parents_. I asked if it was a stranger. He said no to all of it, like he was upset I would even ask. I didn’t know if he was lying, but I just kept asking. About everyone I could think of. He kept saying no. But then…” She gritted her teeth. “I asked about _him_ , and he didn’t say no. He didn’t say anything. But he didn’t say no.”

Silence, again. Matt was supposed to be asking questions; he knew that. But his ears were still ringing and the office felt cold.

“Um…” Foggy once again picked up the ball Matt had fumbled. “Right. Without a rape kit, it might be difficult to prove it was the priest. You won’t have his DNA, for example.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“No, no,” Foggy said quickly. He was settling into his new role of asking all the questions and giving all the advice, and if he was upset with Matt, he didn’t show it by so much as a twitch. “If he didn’t want a kit done, that’s…that makes perfect sense, and it’s totally understandable. And it’s not even unusual. Do you think…do you think you could get your son to start journaling, though? About things in general, maybe, if he doesn’t want to talk about what happened. But if you can get him to write about what happened, that’d be good. Really, though, anything he writes down will be helpful.”

Her shoulders loosened a little, like Foggy was physically removing a weight from her back. “Okay. I can do that. Well, I can talk to him about that. But…yeah. I’ll try again. I’ll see if I can get him to tell me—”

“Carefully,” Matt blurted out.

The other heads in the room turned towards him.

Matt felt his skin heat up. “I just mean…if it really was his priest, he…he probably threatened your son. To keep him from telling anyone.”

Hannah tensed. “Threatened how?”

Matt shrugged weakly. “Damnation?” he offered, trying to make it sound like nothing more than an educated guess. Like, _it’s only logical._

“That son of a _bitch_.”

Matt moved both his hands under the table. His stomach was twisted in knots and he couldn’t be sure that he was passing for normal.

“It’s not…all that uncommon,” Foggy said awkwardly. “Priests have a lot of power. And automatic trust. And they claim to speak to God and for God, which means when they tell you to do something, or to _not_ do something…”

“That’s why he won’t tell me what happened?”

Foggy’s voice was full of regret, like he was in mourning along with her. “Probably.”

“ _Bastard_ ,” she hissed.

“Which church was it?” Matt asked, and hoped his voice didn’t sound as strained to them as it did to him. His nails dug into his palms.

“St. Matthew’s.” She spat the name out like it tasted bad.

Foggy wrote that down, then scooted a little closer. “Listen. If you want justice, you should talk to the police. Give a statement. Tell them everything you know. They’ll, uh, probably want to talk to Samuel. But if—”

“Wait, wait.” She pulled a battered notebook that smelled of old coffee out of her bag, and a pen. “Okay,” she said, starting to write fervently. “Keep going.”

“If you give them some information to start,” Foggy went on, “the police might not have to talk to him right away. You’ll have time to see if you can help Samuel get more, um, comfortable. With talking.”

From what Matt could tell, she was trying to write down every word.

“You’ll also want to talk to the nurse or doctor, whoever saw your son. Get as much information from them as you can.”

Hannah lifted her head, glancing up. “Won’t the police interview them?”

“They should,” Foggy said carefully. “But they might not ask all the right questions. Depends on how much training and experience they have with this sort of thing. For example, you don’t just want to know about the, uh, physical…effects. You also want to ask the nurse or doctor about your son’s attitude. Like, was he withdrawn? Was he upset?”

Hannah swallowed. “He was a ghost.”

“With you, yes,” Foggy said. “But were you in the room with him for the exam? Because he may have acted different when it was just him and a nurse. However he was acting _then_ could be important. And if he said _anything_ , you’ll want that written down somewhere. Which is another reason to go talk to them, in case the police don’t get around to interviewing them for a while. You don’t want them to forget anything.”

“Right, right.” She kept scribbling. “What else?”

Foggy wet his lips. “I guess—I mean, if you’re comfortable, you could ask around at the church, see if—”

“No,” Matt interrupted.

They both jumped a little, like they’d forgotten he was in the room, and turned to him.

“No,” Matt repeated, blinking. “If you start asking around before you know who’s on your side—”

“On my _side?_ ” Hannah clutched her pen tighter.

“We don’t know how widespread this is,” Matt insisted, heart pounding in his ears. “If you go asking around and the wrong person hears about it…there’s no way to know what the repercussions will be.”

Hannah’s breathing was getting shallower and shallower.

“It’s okay,” Foggy rushed to say. “Um, my partner makes a good point, though. Maybe hold off on talking to…church people. But the hospital, yeah, you should definitely do that. And the police. And your son. That’s enough to start with, don’t you think?”

She nodded dazedly. “Yeah. I think…I’ll start there. Thank you so much, I don’t…I don’t know what I’d be doing without you two.” She pushed herself to her feet, holding her notebook to her chest.

Foggy stood, too. “Like Matt said, we’ll help however we can. That’s a promise.”

Matt was the last to stand. Foggy was already guiding Hannah out of the room as he started talking. “Thank you for coming by. Feel free to call us anytime.” The words rolled off his tongue automatically, no need for input from him. “We’ll be with you every step of the way.”

“As much as we can,” Foggy clarified.

Right. They weren’t prosecutors. They were on the wrong side of the criminal justice system.

Hannah left, thanks still tumbling from her lips. Her feet didn’t drag so much when she walked now, like she’d been able to shed some of the weight of what happened. But Matt knew it wouldn’t last. The weight would come back. Tonight, probably. Or before.

“Whew.” Foggy leaned against the door once it was shut behind her. “That was _intense_.” He lifted his head. “Hey, Matt, where’re you…?”

Matt was already ducking into the bathroom. His first thought was just that he needed…space. Just a little bit of distance from Foggy and all the words Foggy was about to say. But now that he was in here, he realized that maybe the twisting in his gut was something more like nausea, and therefore the bathroom was a really smart place to be. Not that he planned on throwing up. Still, he stood close to one of the stalls—there were two, and a urinal, and a tiny sink all crammed together in too small of a room—just in case. Holding his arm up, he buried his nose in his sleeve, trying to block out the world with the smell of his almost-but-not-really-scentless detergent.

Deep breaths. In and out.

A cautious tap on the doorway. “…Matt? You in here?”

Of course he was in here, Foggy _watched_ him go in here. Still. Societal expectations. “Here,” Matt answered, voice muffled through his sleeve.

“You okay?”

Foggy sounded like he was about two seconds away from barging in. A self-deprecating joke would be a good way to ward him off. Matt rummaged around in his brain, trying to find one. The best he could come up with was, “I’m in the bathroom, Foggy.”

It would’ve maybe, _possibly_ been funny if he could’ve managed some inflection.

Foggy forced a laugh anyway, because he was polite like that. “Sorry. I’m too nosy. I’ll…leave you to it.”

His footsteps carried him away.

Matt was a little confused to realize he was disappointed. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head back against the stall, tracking every scent and sound to its source, doing everything he could to stay firmly in the here and now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Psalm 82:3 ~ "Give justice to the weak and the fatherless; maintain the right of the afflicted and the destitute."


	2. Matthew 23:27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Matt as Daredevil stops a sexual assault. As always, take care of yourselves!

Matt stayed late at the office. In his defense, there was a lot to do. There was also a lot that he didn’t necessarily need to do, but he wanted to get it done now. Extra case research, editing and re-editing a brief, going over some depositions for the third time, maybe even dipping into some other circuit case law just to see if anything interesting came up. Why all of this was suddenly so urgent, he wasn’t sure; before getting to the office this morning, he hadn’t felt that any of these tasks were particularly pressing. But it didn’t hurt to be productive.

Foggy left around five-thirty, saying he had plans with Marci. Good for him. Karen still wasn’t back, but she texted both Matt and Foggy to let them know she was: first, alive, and second, not doing anything illegal. Matt wasn’t sure he believed her second claim, but he saw no reason to doubt the first. Unfortunately, it sounded like she wouldn’t be coming back to the office any time soon, and yet it was far too early to put on the suit and go out for the night.

Normally, when workdays ended earlier but neither Foggy nor Karen were available to get drinks afterward, Matt might find himself wandering over to Clinton Church. He and Maggie were still repairing things, and it was frustrating and rewarding at the same time.

But after today, the thought of being around her…or even Father Lantom…Matt’s stomach twisted again and he turned resolutely back to his work. By the time he finally sensed the sun setting outside, the pavement cooling, the streetlights flickering on, he’d surprised himself with his own productivity. Despite having so much he wanted to get done, the back of his mind had insisted on doubting whether he’d be able to concentrate at all.

The mind controlled the body, after all, but sometimes it just couldn’t control itself.

But so far, Matt’s mind had remained focused on the tasks at hand, requiring barely any effort from him. A sign of his improving mental health? Probably. Why waste time thinking about—about anything unproductive?

Still. He couldn’t help taking a detour on his way home, once he finally left the office.

St. Matthew’s was on the other side of Hell’s Kitchen from Clinton Church. It was closer to the office, but Matt had never been. Going to a church without Father Lantom was never something he’d wanted to do. During the seven years of college and law school, he’d tried exactly three times: twice at the small Catholic center at Columbia, once at an actual church. But he hadn’t felt God at all. Not during the ritual, not during prayer, not during the sermon. He never tried to go to confession.

He’d thought about it. Usually after a weekend where Foggy convinced him to go to a party or, well, do literally anything other than study.

And he’d thought about it a lot after Elektra crashed into his life.

But it didn’t really seem worth it. If he was going to Hell anyway….

Today, though, he wasn’t walking by St. Matthew’s because he planned on visiting. He was walking by it because he needed to hear for himself. It was well past mass, which was good. Matt was much more interested in whatever happened before and after.

St. Matthew’s was bigger than Clinton Church, though not by much and not if you counted the orphanage attached to the latter. Maybe he was projecting, but St. Matthew’s seemed…less friendly. It was a little further back from the sidewalk, with thick bushes pushed up against the walls and windows. In the space between the sidewalk and the bushes, someone had planted a flower garden. The flowers were holding on against the increasingly cold weather, and they seemed to have been planted with great care—they were perfectly spaced—but it all felt too…rigid. Perfectionistic. The exterior walls of the church were scrubbed to the point that, well, _Matt_ would never eat off it, but someone else possibly would. Which was odd given that he could already tell that the interior wasn’t kept in such fastidious condition.

Curling his fingers tighter around the handle of his cane, Matt stopped by a bench outside, but couldn’t actually bring himself to sit. Besides, he didn’t plan on staying long. He just needed to listen.

He caught snatches of nuns praying. One prayed for her family, another for a friend, another for herself.

He heard a young man fumbling to say the rosary, needing to stop and restart as he forgot the words.

And he heard a priest in the confessional, talking to a little girl. A woman—the mother, presumably, was waiting outside. The girl talked about getting mad at her friends at school, and about telling a lie to her dad, and about how sometimes she fell asleep in church.

“I am sorry for these and all my sins,” she said, pronouncing each word very carefully.

The priest sounded a little amused as he told her that her penance was to do something kind to her friends and confess her lie to her dad.

“What about for falling asleep in church?” she asked, sounding nervous.

“I think God understands that church can be boring,” the priest assured her, and went on to help her pray an act of contrition. A minute or two later, he released the girl back into the arms of her mother.

Matt pressed his lips into a grim line. He of all people knew that one innocent interaction was no proof of actual innocence. Maybe he should listen a little longer.

~

He’d hovered outside the church for about an hour, and sensed nothing suspicious. The very lack of evidence left him agitated as he walked home, if only because lingering there, listening to that confessional, knowing what he was listening _for_ , was making it so much harder to…focus on what he needed to focus on. It rankled to venture so close to everything he was trying to avoid and not even get anything _useful_ out of it.

At least he’d soon have an outlet for the frustration simmering under his skin. But first things first.

Back in his apartment, Matt knelt in front of the unlocked chest, breathing in the musty smells of new latex, dried sweat and blood, and dust in the bottom of the chest, under everything else. Reaching up one hand, he crossed himself before pulling out the pieces of the new suit Melvin had made for him once he’d been released. (Foggy had called in a favor from another defense attorney friend, reasoning that it would draw too many points of connection between Matt and Daredevil if Matt were to publicly defend Melvin.) It was still red, according to Foggy, and Matt could still feel horns sprouting from the helmet.

He knew he had the devil in him long before he ever heard his grandmother say it. But now, thanks to her, he had a name for it.

Growing up, he kept it mostly under control. Jack helped. Jack was the opposite of a hypocrite; he didn’t try to hide how _he_ struggled to keep the devil in check. That helped. His dad wasn’t perfect, so Matt didn’t have to be either. Matt never had to lie or pretend to be better than he was. They could struggle together.

And then Jack was gone, and Matt was trapped at the orphanage, and appearances were everything. The nuns set an unreachable example and the kids pressed themselves into the mold. How you kept the rules mattered more than why. How often you attended mass mattered more than whether you actually loved the person sitting next to you. And was anything really sin if you didn’t get caught?

The devil didn’t do well in that environment. Matt followed the rules and the rituals and sometimes he even appreciated it all, but he only half-fit the mold. He half-pretended. He half-lied. Deep down, he was straining against his leash long before he met Stick.

Stick made it better, and Stick made it worse. Now the devil had an outlet. And now Matt was a liar right down to his core.

Matt shoved the thought away as he pulled on the last piece of the suit and secured the helmet in place. Slipping his new metal batons into the holster strapped to his thigh, he couldn’t help feeling a little bit relieved. He wasn’t a liar anymore. Not really. Not about anything important. Foggy, Karen, Claire, Maggie, _and_ Father Lantom all knew that he was Daredevil.

Of course, that didn’t really matter in terms of the state of Matt’s soul. Belated honesty didn’t erase a lifetime of lies any more than it erased any of his other sins. Like the ones he already knew he’d commit tonight. And the worst part was, he was looking _forward_ to it. He took the steps to the roof access two at a time.

The crisp night air of October had its usual rejuvenating effect: both sharpening his senses and giving him a sense of freedom that was almost impossible to find when he was weighed down by his glasses and cane and the accompanying charade. A grin took over as he sprinted to the edge of the roof and leapt, starting his course for the night. He ran against the wind—a good idea for maximizing his sense of smell, and a _great_ idea for feeling like he was running twice as fast. Each jump, each flip, each mile he ran confirmed that, despite everything he’d lost, this city was _his_.

(And something in the back of his mind held this fact up like it was making an argument in front of a judge. _See,_ it said, _everything is normal. Everything is fine._ )

Which was confirmed when he was able to deal with the first few signs of trouble while barely breaking a sweat. He broke up a couple fights, and on the last one he used a particular spinning kick that he’d still been struggling with when Stick left. It was the first move he’d figured out on his own, and he always felt a thrill of pride at getting it right. Then he dissuaded a would-be burglar lurking outside of a shop by landing silently behind the guy and tapping him on the shoulder. The guy wet himself and babbled out a promise to turn himself in to the police. Matt didn’t bother explaining that, technically, he hadn’t actually committed a crime yet. He stopped two more assaults after that and it was all so easy he was almost bored.

The very thought came with a flash of guilt when he picked up on the distant sound of terrified, muffled sobbing. He took off in that direction, weaving along the rooftops. He finally found a young girl in a parking lot behind a closed gym, pressed into the wall by two men. Her purse was on the ground, but the men were utterly ignoring it as one of them tore at the button of her jeans.

Her blouse was ripped, her bottom lip was split, and there was blood smeared across her temple and the wall from when they must’ve slammed her tearstained face into it. Their adrenaline was up and Matt’s stomach clenched in disgust as he caught the scent of her terror mingling with their arousal.

A deadly calm settled over him as he flipped over the edge of the roof above them, landing behind them. The girl gasped. The men released her as they both spun around, and Matt took vicious pleasure in the way their heartrates tripled.

“Let her go,” he ordered quietly. He was going to hurt them tonight no matter what, but if they backed off, maybe he’d restrict himself from breaking every other bone in both their bodies.

One of them took a step back, hands half-raised.

Matt gave him a semi-approving nod.

But the other drew a knife.

Matt’s upper lip curled back in a snarl. He was almost glad.

The man with the knife took a quick breath, enough to signal that he was about to attack. Matt subtly slid his left foot back, settling into a southpaw stance. The man with the knife was apparently too buzzed on adrenaline to notice. He suddenly raced forward, slashing with the knife.

Matt side-stepped, parried, grabbed the man’s wrist, twisted, and caught the knife before it could fall to the ground when the man’s hand spasmed. Another sharp twist to the wrist, and the man was doubled over, yelling and swearing. Matt drove his knee up into the man’s gut, effectively cutting off his vulgarities along with his oxygen. The man slackened, and Matt shoved him to the asphalt, kicking him in the ribs. Something cracked loudly and Matt was about to kick again, take out more ribs, when the girl gasped again.

He whirled around, only to realize he’d misjudged the other man who now held the girl in a tight grip with his hand around her throat, fingers digging in, sure to leave behind bruises.

“Just let us go, D,” the man called, voice wavering as he took a backwards step towards the end of the parking lot, dragging the girl with him.

“Let her go,” Matt repeated, this time as a growl through gritted teeth. He couldn’t believe he’d been so stupid as to let this shitbag get his hands on the girl. Her jeans were still unbuttoned.

The man just kept backing up, tightening his grip on her. Including on her neck. Her breathing was strained; Matt could hear her lungs struggling to get enough air.

The deadly calm was replaced by something more visceral. He drew a baton, but the man saw and ducked before he could throw it, using the girl as a shield. Matt’s simmering rage ignited. He threw his baton anyway, striking the streetlight behind them with a loud, reverberating _bang_. The man ducked again, and Matt took advantage by sprinting forward. There was no time to be gentle; he ripped the girl from her assailant’s grasp, even though the man’s nails dug into her skin. She stumbled, fresh blood trickling from the new scratches on her neck.

Matt was distantly aware that the man with the knife had made his escape, taking his weapon with him and leaving Matt free to focus entirely on the remaining attacker. He let his fist fly, shattering the man’s nose and filling the air with the stench of his blood. Matt followed this up with multiple strikes to the ribs, the solar plexus, the gut, until the man was hunched over, coughing, gagging on his own blood. Matt drove his knee into the man’s groin so hard that the man only lasted two seconds before throwing up from the pain.

Seemed only just in light of what he’d been trying to do.

Dodging the spew, Matt easily knocked the man face-first to the ground. He rolled him over with a hard kick and pinned him there, driving his fist into the man’s face again and again and again until thick, tangy blood was all Matt could smell, and the blood rushing in his own ears was all he could hear.

Blood, blood, blood.

The man was unconscious. Matt snarled in fury; he couldn’t even _stay awake_ for his punishment. It made it so much less satisfying.

Matt’s gloved hands were trembling and blood-soaked when he finally stopped. Not because his rage was anywhere near abated but because his legs were cramping. Rising stiffly, Matt wiped the blood on his suit.

His hands were still trembling.

From the fight, right? And from anger. That was all. That was _normal_.

The girl had vanished into the night. Matt couldn’t hear her anymore, and could only hope she’d called a friend or family member to come get her. He had to believe she was okay. As okay as someone could be, anyway, given what had almost—

He squeezed his eyes shut as he heard a voice in his ears, one he hadn’t heard in _years_ , one he’d been fighting all day not to remember. It was old and thin and crystal clear despite the passing of time. Laughing. Telling him to keep quiet unless he wanted to go to Hell. Matt itched to throw another punch, but the man who needed a taste of the devil’s fury was long gone.

 _And besides, Matty,_ the voice said. _We both know you wouldn’t hit me. You never could._

Bile rose in Matt’s throat. He stumbled away from the unconscious body, taking refuge in the nearest alley. It wasn’t just his hands now: his entire body was trembling. Pressing his back against the grimy alley wall, Matt slid down to the ground, shielded by a dumpster, and tried not to hyperventilate.

Shit—he’d been trying _so hard_ to just, to keep that, to keep all of that away. Pretend it never happened. He hadn’t even dreamed about it in months, hadn’t really thought about it in years.

But this new case.

Matt focused on breathing. He was fine. The girl was fine. Or, at least, not hurt too bad. He’d done his job. Everything was fine. And he really didn’t have time right now to relive the past. It didn’t even _matter_ anymore, so why—why did he suddenly smell the dusty wood of that ancient confessional, why did he suddenly feel _trapped_ —

Ripping off his helmet, he tossed it aside as he gulped for breath, needing the feel of fresh air on the back of his neck and in his sweat-soaked hair. He only remembered after the fact that he was at the street level, in an alley where anyone who glanced by could see. He needed his helmet, but it had rolled about six feet away, and crossing that small distance suddenly felt impossible, like his limbs were held down by weights at his wrists and ankles.

What was _wrong_ with—

 _Nothing_ was wrong. He was fine.

He just…needed a minute.

Shivering a little, he closed his eyes like he was a little kid first learning how to play hide and seek, thinking that if he couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see him. Besides, he was reasonably sure there was no one near this alley except the unconscious criminal.

But that didn’t mean Matt shouldn’t move.

He just…didn’t.

A thought arose, in a distant part of his mind, to suggest that this was the point where someone was supposed to find him. Foggy was supposed to miraculously appear, or Karen was supposed to call him. If his life were a story, this was the point where he was not supposed to be left alone.

But his life wasn’t a story. He wasn’t anything special. He couldn’t just expect the people who cared about him to magically show up whenever he needed them. They had their own lives that didn’t revolve around him and—and whatever his problem was.

Matt should get up. Find another crime to stop, or else call it a night and go home. Sitting here like this, weak and pathetic and dressed up in the identifiable suit, he was just a target for anyone and everyone who hated Daredevil. He was practically asking for it.

He was gonna get up. Really.

He gave himself a few more seconds. Maybe a minute. No more than two minutes, though.

Then he pushed himself to his feet. After all, he was a Murdock. They always got back up.

~

_Bless me, Father, for I have sinned._

_How have you sinned, my son?_

~

Wiry hands, skin ancient and papery. The fingers were strong, though. Too strong for their age. They deftly undid the button of Matt’s jeans as though they’d done it a thousand times before. Not to him. This was only, what, the sixth time for Matt? Give or take? But to others.

He tried to jerk back, but a heavy weight trapped him.

Hands. Fingers everywhere.

Matt twisted, but his body wouldn’t move and he couldn’t get free.

The weight pressed down on him, harder and harder, and the _smell_ —

But that was nothing compared to the pain. It started small, an ember, but morphed in an instant to a flame—

Matt jolted awake, gasping, sweat-soaked sheets twisted around his legs. He fell out of bed, shoving to get the sheets off, and raced to the bathroom where he skidded on his knees in front of the toilet and threw up everything he’d last eaten. The retches echoed off the porcelain and around the barren room.

Finally, his stomach stopped heaving and clenching. Flushing the toilet, he scooted backwards to press his back against the cool bathroom wall, legs pulled up and arms wrapped around himself, shivering. His pitiful pants for breath drowned out every other noise.

His eyes stung with tears. Not from the nightmare, but from the force of throwing up. That was what he had to believe.

Still, he hugged himself a little tighter.

When he was a kid, the house he shared with his dad was small, and Jack slept light. Whenever Matt got sick, and it happened a lot after the accident when all the smells and tastes and noises were too much, there was no way he could throw up in the bathroom without his dad hearing, no matter how quiet he tried to be. Jack would always come in and rub Matt’s back and help him clean up. He’d get Matt water to drink, or something fizzy if they had it, and bundle Matt in blankets on the couch and sit with him all night with an arm around him. If Matt wanted to talk, they’d talk. If not, they’d sit there in silence. And then Matt would wake up the next morning, magically back in his own bed, with another glass of water waiting for him on the bedside table.

And then, in the orphanage, it had been Maggie who’d find him. She didn’t sleep much, preferring to spend her nights patrolling the hallways. He realized now that she must’ve passed by his room more often than the other rooms. He didn’t get sick as much in the orphanage, especially not after Stick trained him, but when it did happen, she’d find him in the bathroom and use a wet cloth to cool him down and help him back to bed, and then she’d hold his hand and tell him Bible stories until he fell asleep. Sometimes, he almost thought she kissed his forehead before leaving.

He’d only gotten sick twice in law school. Well, the first time wasn’t even sickness—it was anxiety over their very first midterm that sent him rushing to the bathroom at three in the morning the night before the test. He’d only known Foggy for a few weeks, but there was no hiding the sounds in their tiny dorm. Foggy had come stumbling into the bathroom, asking if Matt was okay. He’d awkwardly put his hand on Matt’s shoulder and then, when Matt couldn’t stop trembling, pulled him into an actual hug. It was their very first hug, and for some reason the fact that it happened when Matt was so pathetic and disgusting was…well. It meant a lot. And then Foggy steered Matt back into bed and offered to get him meds or headphones or whatever else might help. Matt turned it all down, just wanting to sleep, but then he awoke the next morning to find a glass of water on the bedside table, and his throat had tightened up.

Now, Matt pressed his face into his knees, holding his breath, letting the silence creep back into the bathroom. He didn’t need help. Or comfort. Or pity.

But.

~

He could’ve fought back. That was what made it all so…well.

He’d had the training by then. It would’ve taken next to nothing to stop it.

He could’ve fought back.

He hadn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Matthew 23:27 ~ "Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For you are like whitewashed tombs, which outwardly appear beautiful, but within are full of dead people's bones and all uncleanness."


	3. Nahum 1:3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I haven't forgotten about any of my other fics. I'm just more passionate about this one because, well, this is a thing that needs to be talked about.

Matt’s alarm clanged in his ear. He had an instant, wild impulse to throw the thing across the room. He hit the button for the time instead. 

_Se-ven o-clock a-m_ , the clock said dispassionately.

Ugh. He sat up, fully intending to get out of bed, but he felt…off. He was used to operating on little sleep, so he wasn’t sure why he felt so hazy now. He should get up and meditate. Clear his head. Spend time with God.

Instead, without any real amount of conscious thought, he slumped back down and pulled the covers up again. Stick would be disgusted with his laziness. Matt kind of cared, but mostly he just wanted to lie there and listen to his city slowly waking up.

He hoped the girl from last night was okay. Which suddenly reminded him: _he hadn’t called the police._ He’d let the one assailant escape, and he’d left the other just lying there, and he hadn’t even had the chance to tell either criminal to turn himself in. And now why would they, without Daredevil’s orders hanging over their heads?

Matt’s stomach, still uneasy from last night, turned over. People like that, they weren’t gonna stop. One bad encounter with Daredevil wouldn’t be enough to keep them from doing the exact same thing the next time their appetite demanded it. He’d saved one person, yeah, but how arrogant did he have to be to imagine he’d be there to protect the next person?

Rolling over, he pushed his face into his pillow. Some days, not often but some days, the guilt was just too heavy to think about. This was, for some reason, apparently one of those days.

He didn’t actually fall asleep again; he stayed in that bleary in-between stage where time crawled. Hence the shock when his phone started chirping Foggy’s name.

_“Foggy. Foggy. Foggy.”_

Matt fumbled for his phone. “Hello?”

 _“How bad are you hurt?”_ Foggy greeted him.

“…What?”

_“Dude, it’s ten o’clock. Don’t tell me you have a concussion.”_

Matt was immediately lost in a wave of disorientation. How could it possibly be ten in the morning already? Lurching out of bed, he tried to force his spinning thoughts to focus. He’d showered last night, so all he needed was to get dressed. And eat breakfast? The mere concept was disgusting. Just clothes, then. That was his priority right now.

 _“Matt?”_ Foggy asked, real concern evident in his voice.

Still holding the phone to his ear, Matt hurried to the wardrobe. “No, sorry, I’m here, I’m fine. I just, uh…” He rifled through his suits, running his finger over the braille tags. “Give me twenty minutes.”

_“Are you sick? You sound awful.”_

Did he? Was he? Sickness would explain throwing up last night, but Matt really didn’t want to discuss any of that with Foggy. “I’m fine, I just overslept.”

_“I have never in my life known you to oversleep.”_

That wasn’t even true, and what was this, a cross-examination? “Hanging up on you now,” Matt said, sounding a little more irritated than he meant. “I’ll be there in twenty.”

~

“Matt, you made it!” Karen all but bounced over to him the second he set foot in their lobby, smelling of mixed berry shampoo and coffee. “Foggy said you said you’re fine. Lemme see how not true that is.”

“Excuse me,” Matt spluttered, not that he really minded her putting her hands on him as she looked for injuries.

She tilted his head in different directions and ran her hands down his sides to check for broken ribs. “Huh.” The frown was clear in her voice when she finally pulled back. “You really are fine.”

“Yeah, I’m aware.” He propped his cane in the corner. “I just overslept.”

“You never oversleep,” she pointed out.

“And you would know this how?”

She maintained a lofty silence, because of course she knew this from Foggy, which made it nothing but hearsay.

Matt felt a bit ashamed of himself as he shrugged off his heavier outer jacket to hang it up. “Sorry. I appreciate your concern.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I…do,” he countered awkwardly. Because he did…in theory. He cleared his throat. “What about you, though? How’d it go yesterday?”

She instantly brightened. “Do you know the problem with taking cases involving dogs? When the case is over, you have to say goodbye to the dog.”

“The case is over?”

“Well, it will be. I got nine different statements from neighbors who’ve met Thor on various walks.”

He raised his eyebrows. “These statements are about…Thor’s temperament?”

“Are you making fun of me?” she asked suspiciously.

“How could a case of a false accusation at a dog park possibly provide me an opportunity to make fun of you?”

“You are!” She drew herself up in verdant indignation. “ _Yes_ , my investigative skills contributed to the incarceration of Wilson Fisk—twice. But that does _not_ mean I don’t get to choose who else benefits from my skills. Including a beautiful pit bull who did nothing wrong.”

“He’s beautiful, now?” Matt asked, biting back a smile as he walked into his office.

“ _So_ beautiful, Matt.” Following him, she perched on the edge of the chair in front of his desk, gesturing emphatically. “Besides, the world’s a dark place. If you can’t find joy in the little things, what’s the point?”

“Very profound. Have you considered going into philosophy?” Matt started setting up his laptop, enjoying her sincerity more than he had any right to. “If Thor means so much to you, I’m sure you could ask Mr. Dunkin to hang out with him more.”

“Or I could take more cases with dogs,” she said thoughtfully. “In between investigating Senator Sandoval for knowing more than he should about what Fisk was doing.”

Matt cocked his head at the familiar name, trying to remember where he’d heard it last. “He didn’t get caught up in any of the sweeps?”

“No, but that doesn’t mean he’s in the clear. That’s almost the worst part, though: he probably _thinks_ he’s escaped all scrutiny.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder. “But he can’t hide forever, not if he’s going to just pretend he’s this perfect saint who never hurt anyone!”

Matt tilted his head at her. “And who, exactly, is paying you for investigating him?”

She folded her arms across her chest. “…No one.”

“So you’re doing it for…?”

“Justice,” she said without a hint of hesitation.

He was no longer able to keep his smile off his face.

Karen stood up indignantly. “You’re _still_ making fun of me!”

He started laughing before he could stop himself. “No, no, I’m really not.” Just admiring her relentless pursuit of truth.

“What, you think I should just let it go? Let him get away with it?”

“Absolutely not,” he said, stepping around his desk to put his hand on her arm. “Seriously, I—I think it’s really great. What you’re doing. People need to know what he was involved with.”

Karen was quiet for a moment. Probably trying to figure out if she believed him. Then she sighed and pushed her hair back out of her face. “Okay. Good. Because this is _important_ , Matt.”

“I know,” he said immediately. “But…for what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re looking for, you know, cases with dogs. In between. If that makes you feel better. About, you know. Things.”

More silence. When she finally said, “Mmm,” he had no idea what that meant.

“Uh, anyway.” Dropping his hand away from her arm, he stepped back. “Good luck. And if you need any help— _want_ any help,” he corrected himself. “Uh. You can just ask.”

“Mmm.” He heard the small, devious smile in her voice. “Is it unethical for me to ask Daredevil to hang around creepy politician offices at night, just in case he overhears something?”

The fact that she had no problem asking him for Daredevil’s help was something he still wasn’t quite used to, and the reminder that she not only knew about Daredevil but _appreciated_ him still thrilled him for reasons he wasn’t ready to admit. “Of course it is,” he said softly. “But just name the place.”

“Will do,” she said just as softly, and it was suddenly a little awkward, standing there, because it felt like they were talking about more than the senator’s scandal but that was probably just because Matt was reading into things, wishing for more than he was allowed to have.

He stepped back again, putting his desk between them. “Anyway—”

She tucked her hair behind an ear. “Um, anyway. What about you?” Now she clasped her hands together, the way she sometimes did when shifting her attention. “How’s that new client?”

Caught off-guard, he rubbed at the back of his neck. “Yeah, um, no, it’s good.”

“Yeah, um, no?” she echoed, a hint of amusement in her tone.

He was still trying to get his thoughts in order enough to figure out what to say. And what not to say. “I mean…we don’t really know how good of a case it is. We don’t really know what evidence there is, or…”

She leaned her hip against his desk. “Well, gathering evidence is kinda my thing, so if _you_ need help—”

“No,” he said immediately, unthinkingly.

“No?” she repeated, a little sharp.

“No, I mean…” He didn’t want her anywhere near this case, but he couldn’t exactly tell her that. “Look, it’s not even _our_ case. Technically. The client wants a criminal prosecution, which obviously we can’t do. We’re just…helping her through the process.”

“Oh, yeah? What’s it about?”

If he didn’t tell her, she’d just ask Foggy, and then she’d be even more suspicious. “…Child abuse,” he admitted, sitting down in his chair and pretending to be distracted with his earbud cord.

“Oh.” The sharpness in her voice instantly vanished. “Well, you can always help her with a civil suit, right?”

“We can’t,” Matt said—stupidly.

She folded her arms across her chest. “Why not?”

And that was why he was stupid: he should’ve known she’d ask the obvious follow-up question. And there was no real way to dodge it because, again, she’d just go to Foggy to get all the details, and then she’d wonder why Matt hadn’t wanted to say it himself. But it was fine. Even if he told her more about the case, there was no reason for her to make…any particular inferences.

(But what if she did?)

He took a deep breath. “It’d be against the Catholic church.”

“Oh, shit. A priest?”

He nodded.

She started pacing. “Okay, but _why_ can’t you sue? A civil case, I mean.”

Matt cringed. “Sue the entire Catholic church?”

She paced faster. “I mean, if the church won’t hold _itself_ accountable—”

“We’re too young,” Matt said flatly. “As a firm. And our reputation is too…shaky.” His fault. The disaster of the Castle case and their subsequent breakup—all his fault.

“You took down Fisk and all his corrupt police officers and FBI agents! If there’s any firm capable of tackling institutional corruption—”

“It could cost us the firm,” he argued.

She pulled up abruptly and held very still. She was staring at him, he knew.

He tried not to fidget.

“Okay,” she said at last, slowly. “That sounds like something Foggy would say.”

“…What?”

“Like with the Castle case. Remember? _He_ was the one worried about the firm collapsing. _You_ were the one worried about justice.”

“Yeah, and look how that turned out,” he muttered.

She put her hands on her hips. “Since when do you care more about your reputation than about helping people?”

“That’s not—don’t twist it like that, I’m not saying—”

“Sounds like it’s what you’re saying,” she snapped.

He opened his mouth, but there was no way to defend himself because…she was right. He should be chomping at the bit for the chance to shine as big a spotlight as he could on this kind of evil.

But.

“Yes?” Karen prompted.

He turned his face away. “Never mind.”

“Seriously?” She leaned over his desk. “You get this case dropped in your _lap_ , and you don’t even want to see how far you can take it?”

He shoved his chair away from her. “It’s not about me!”

She pulled back, her bewilderment palpable.

He tripped over himself to explain in a way that was still true but, more importantly, not incriminating. “Our new client, it’s the mother. Her son was—her son was _raped_ , Karen, but he hasn’t even been honest with _her_ yet. You think he’ll appreciate us forcing this case into the public eye?” The rest of the argument took shape as he ranted. He kept going. “Even if his name’s redacted, you think he’ll thank us for making it impossible for him to get away from it when all the news outlets are speculating about it and every single person in his life is taking sides about how bad the abuse even _was?_ ”

She winced, fingers twisting together. “…Oh.”

“Yeah,” he said coldly. “So maybe you should stop focusing so much on bringing the perpetrators to justice and remember that there are real victims here.”

“Matt,” she said quietly. “That’s not fair.”

“You’re right. None of this is.” He snapped his laptop open. “If you’ll excuse me, I have work to get done.”

He caught the tiny sound of her teeth biting at her lower lip, and her barely-audible, “Sorry.” Then she turned, closing his door behind her as she left.

He listened until he knew she’d gone into her own office. Only then did he pull his glasses off and drop his head into his hands.

~

“Hey, buddy?” Foggy poked his head through the door.

Matt unhooked his earbud. “Yeah?”

“Lunch,” Foggy said, and held up a bag of takeout as evidence. “If you want some.”

Matt blinked. He’d smelled it, obviously, but he hadn’t really thought about it. “Oh, yeah, great,” he answered before he could really think through whether he was actually hungry.

“What’ve you been working on?” Foggy asked, wandering into Matt’s office. “I haven’t seen you all day.”

“How did you cope,” Matt replied dryly, tilting his laptop so Foggy could look at the screen. “I went through all the depositions for the Hill case. Found two discrepancies. Maybe three, if we spin it a bit. Oh, and there’s a few eighth circuit cases defining _control of a vehicle_ for the Rowley case that you should look at. I mean, they’re not binding, but they’re still persuasive, and the reasoning is analogous. I’ve got that half of our motion ready for you to review, too, when you’ve got the time.”

Foggy let out a quiet, “Huh.”

“What?” Matt asked, a bit defensively. It just felt like Foggy thought he’d done something wrong.

“Nothing, just…” Foggy raised his arm to scratch at the back of his neck. “You’re making me feel inferior, since I got done maybe half the amount of work you did. If I’m being generous. Which I am, in this instance, because I’m self-centered.”

Matt opened his mouth to say that no, really, he hadn’t done that much. Except…he kind of had. He shrugged. “I’ve been focusing.”

“You can eat and focus at the same time,” Foggy reminded him mildly, but he didn’t push it. He returned to his own office, leaving Matt still confused as to whether he’d done something wrong.

A few minutes—no, hours, apparently; it was hard to keep track—later, Matt was pulled out of the case he was listening to by a familiar voice in the lobby. He cocked his head. What was _Brett_ doing here?

Foggy was asking the same thing, but Brett basically waved him off. “Actually, Foggy, I was hoping to talk to Murdock.”

“But you’re _my_ friend!” Foggy clutched at his chest. “I’m _wounded_ , Brett.”

“You’ll recover,” Brett assured him. “He in there?” He jerked his thumb at Matt’s office.

“Yeah, but good luck getting him to talk to you. He’s been working nonstop all day.”

Matt felt a flash of irritation, like Foggy was gossiping about him. Which was ridiculous. There was nothing negative about working nonstop. Why was he so _on edge_ these days?

Anyway, Brett wasn’t put off by Foggy’s warnings. He tapped on Matt’s doorframe. “Hey, Murdock? You got a second?”

“Yeah, just let me…” Matt paused the file he was listening to and sat back in his chair. “C’mon in. What’s up?”

Brett approached, taking the chair opposite Matt’s desk. He didn’t relax into it, though. He seemed kind of…stiff. Like he didn’t really want to be here or didn’t really want to be having this conversation.

Behind his glasses, Matt’s eyes narrowed.

“So,” Brett began. The heel of one foot tapped an arrhythmic pattern against the leg of the chair. “One of your clients came to see me. Hannah McCarty.”

Oh. That was…faster than Matt had been expecting, honestly. “We’re not representing her.”

“But you’re helping her,” Brett said simply.

“Well, yeah.” They had to. “So, you’re on the case?”

“Do you know how rare it is that something like this gets reported? I’m not passing this off on a rookie.”

Matt gave a small smile. “Still. You didn’t have to take it on yourself.”

“Yeah, I did.” Brett leaned forward over his knees. “And that’s why I’m talking to you.”

“Privilege,” Matt said immediately. “Sorry, but I can’t tell you anything that Ms. McCarty discussed with us. If you think she’s withholding something—”

“That’s not it,” Brett cut in impatiently. “You’re Catholic, aren’t you?”

Matt sat up straighter. “Yes. Why?”

Brett took a deep breath. “Look, I’ve had my fair share of sexual assault cases. We’re talking strangers, friends, family…all of it. I know what questions to ask, and I know what to look for. This, though…” A hint of disgust crept into his voice. “Anyway. I haven’t talked to her kid yet, and I just wanted to get your take. Advice on what to ask, how to phrase it, all of that. The kid already doesn’t wanna talk, and I don’t want to scare him off by saying the wrong thing.”

“Oh.” That made sense, and Matt felt a rush of appreciation for Brett. At the same exact time, he kind of wished he could be anywhere but in this room, talking about this. Trying to look professional, he folded his hands on the desk and cleared his throat. “Yeah. Okay. Um…” He thought for a minute. “Be careful how you use your authority.”

“What?”

“This priest, he…he would’ve leveraged his authority in the church to get access to Samuel, and make him do things, and warn him against telling anyone. Samuel is used to adults using their authority to hurt him. But you’re a detective—you have authority. I’m just saying, be careful with it.”

“Right.” To Matt’s shock, Brett pulled out a notepad and a pen. He was _taking notes_.

Part of Matt was thrilled. Brett was taking this seriously.

Part of Matt was terrified. Brett was leaving a record.

It was fine. _It wasn’t about him._

Brett lifted his head expectantly. “What else?”

“Uh…” Matt cleared his throat again. “Don’t force him to say anything he doesn’t want to say. You don’t know what the priest is holding over his head.”

“What if he doesn’t want to say _anything?_ ”

“Then back off,” Matt said, an edge to his voice.

“I have to do the investigation, Murdock.”

“Then wait,” Matt amended. “Ask some questions, but if he doesn’t answer, don’t push. Wait. He might tell his mom later. Or he might tell Foggy and me. Or he might tell you—but only if you first prove to him that you respect his boundaries. Understood?”

For a moment, Brett didn’t respond. Then he nodded curtly. “Understood.”

“And…” Matt hesitated. This sounded pathetic. Didn’t it? He didn’t know. “Look, this priest, he’s…he’s probably blaming Samuel.”

“Blaming _Samuel?_ ”

Matt wet his lips. “We’re not talking about a one-off assault here, Brett. This…this abuse is continual. There’s a relationship. But the only way the priest can maintain this relationship despite what he’s doing is with psychological manipulation.”

“Right, I see that in cases where the abuse is in a family.”

Matt nodded, shifting in his chair. “Yeah. It’s like that, probably. So what I’m saying is, the priest is probably alternating between…praising Samuel, making him feel special, and…and making him feel like the priest is the only person in the world capable of loving someone as awful and sinful as he is.”

Brett tightened his grip on his pen.

Matt concentrated on the words, on just spelling this out as clearly as possible. “Which means that anything you can do to…to reassure Samuel that he’s done nothing wrong, that there _are_ people in his life who love him, that he’s…that he’s worth being loved…”

“I’m a detective, Murdock, not a therapist.”

“You might be all he’s got,” Matt snapped.

Brett lowered his head. “Right. Right. But _how_ do I do that?”

“You’re a detective,” Matt repeated. “Do some digging. Find as many good things about Samuel as you can, and let him know that people appreciate all of it. Let him know _you_ admire him. Then…maybe…” He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Brett wrote down one last note. “Well, I guess it won’t hurt. If that’s all…” When Matt didn’t correct him, he slipped his notepad and pen back into his pocket and stood up.

Matt reached out. “Wait—Brett—”

Brett held still.

Matt lowered his hand. “Sorry. Just…you might, uh…” He hid his hand under the table where Brett couldn’t see the fist forming. “Tell Samuel you’ll keep his mother safe.”

“…Safe.”

Matt just nodded, hoping Brett wouldn’t ask him to explain.

Brett nodded back, slowly. “Okay. I’ll do that.”

“Thanks,” Matt said, so quietly he wasn’t sure Brett could even hear it.

But Brett wasn’t leaving. He tilted his head. “Anything else?” he asked. Even though he hadn’t gotten his notepad out again. Why hadn’t he gotten his notepad out again?

Matt quickly shook his head. “No. That’s all. Thanks for coming by.”

“Thanks for helping. If I have more questions, I’ll let you know.” He stepped out. Matt listened to him and Foggy quietly exchanging words in the lobby. About the case, about life, about Brett’s mom.

Nothing to worry about, then.

Matt unclenched his fist. Picking up his earbuds, he twisted the wires around his fingers a few times, then stuck the earbuds in his ears. He rolled his shoulders once, twice, and got to work.

He got lost down a rabbit hole of precedents. One case led to another, which led to another, and the case he really wanted to cite was unpublished so he had to find a different one, and there were a couple of minute explanations of specific words that had some nice explanations from other circuits. Nothing in the second circuit, though. He kept digging, meticulously piecing together the puzzle. He didn’t feel the usual thrill of satisfaction for connecting a dot, but the logic they needed was shaping and reshaping in his head, crystalizing with each new tidbit he found. By the end of the day, he was actually kind of impressed with his own work.

That was when he abruptly realized Foggy was hovering outside Matt’s door. Matt’s stomach flipped. How long had Foggy been there, watching him?

“Buddy?” Foggy asked casually when Matt finally unhooked one of his earbuds. “You coming? You, me, Karen. Drinks at Josie’s tonight.”

“You go,” Matt said, pretending to still be concentrating on running his fingers over his braille display. Besides, he didn’t really think Karen wanted to be around him after this morning.

“…You sure?”

“Yeah, Fogs, I’m good.” He said it quickly, dismissively, despite the fact that he had no idea where he was reading in the document anymore.

Foggy sighed quietly. “Okay. You’re making me feel guilty over here, though. I want that on record.”

Good. If that was all he was upset about, that was fine. “The record shall so reflect.”

“You’re a horrible human being. I want that on record, too.”

“Already noted.”

“Perfect.” Foggy took a half-step out of the room, then stopped. Glanced over his shoulder. “Seriously, though. If you finish up, just text us. We’ll probably still be at Josie’s.”

“Sure,” Matt lied.

Foggy relaxed a tiny bit at that, and left a few seconds later, leaving Matt to the silence of the empty office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nahum 1:3 ~ "The Lord is slow to anger and great in power, and the Lord will by no means clear the guilty."
> 
> I also just want to say how honored I am by the comments. Just, thank you guys so much. <3


	4. Matthew 18:6

Landing on his own roof that night was sweet relief. He’d gotten a bit…reckless, maybe, on patrol. He’d opted to wear his black suit, for one thing. But the armor was heavy, and he felt claustrophobic too easily these days. That, and was something about the danger inherent in going without armor that woke him up, grounding him firmly in his four senses and shutting out every extraneous thought.

And it had all been going fine, really. Until a distant crashing sound made him flinch in the middle of a fight. He was rewarded for his distraction by a knife slicing deeply across his side. He’d tried to fight through the pain and the bleeding, but after about half an hour was forced to call it a night.

It was still bleeding pretty bad, but that was okay because he heard Claire’s heartbeat waiting for him as he limped across to the door. He’d called her when he finally made the decision to stop, and she’d offered to meet at his place. He hated making her come all the way out here, but she said it was better than him bleeding all over everything in her apartment. He didn’t have an argument.

He got the door open, and she was there to meet him on the stairs, steadying him when he stumbled a bit at the first step.

“Whoa,” she said, trying to support his weight. “Concussion?”

“No concussion, I swear.” He knew she wouldn’t believe him, not until she checked his pupils, but it was true. He was just tired, and sort of dizzy from blood loss. He clutched the banister as he made his way down the steps. Felt like he had a few more of them than usual. Even the trek across the flat surface of his living room to reach the couch was hard, and by the time he finally sank gratefully down onto the leather, his hands were shaking just a little.

Claire was radiating disapproval, but she didn’t start lecturing him. Peeling his shirt back, she poked at his wound. “This is gonna need stitches.”

He quirked his lips in a lopsided grin. “Thanks.”

“You’re _thanking_ me for saying you need stitches?”

“I’m thanking you for giving me stitches,” he corrected.

Snorting, she pulled her bag closer. “What makes you think I won’t give the diagnosis and leave you to take care of it yourself?”

“I happen to know you’re a much better person than I am.”

“Lucky for you, that’s true.” She got to work prepping the needles, and he was hit by the overwhelming smell of antiseptic. He let his head fall back onto the cushion, but tensed as she cleaned the wound. “How’d this happen?” she asked.

“Got stupid,” he mumbled, not opening his eyes. “Distracted.”

“ _Distracted_ , huh?”

His muscles tightened at the first stab of the needle. He tried not to track the sutures sliding through his skin, but it was hard to tune that kind of thing out. “I heard something,” he explained through gritted teeth. “Sometimes heightened senses don’t help.”

“Huh.” Claire leaned over him, her hair brushing his chest. “Hadn’t thought about that. How do you keep your mind on a fight when you can hear everything within ten miles?”

“Not within ten miles.”

“Still.” She pulled a little on the stitches to tie them off. He hated the feeling.

“How do you keep your mind on one patient when you’re in a hospital full of hurt and sick people?” he countered. “It’s just a matter of concentration.”

“So your concentration slipped.” Instead of grabbing more sutures, she picked up something else. He heard a _click_ , then felt warmth on his face. “Open your eyes for me.”

“Claire,” he protested. “I don’t have a concussion.” But he couldn’t remember the last time she’d taken him at his word when it came to his health, so he opened his eyes. Heat moved back and forth across his face.

“Hmm.” She set the flashlight aside and got back to the stitches.

“Told you,” he muttered, petulant. In his defense, he almost never got to say those words to her.

“I’m rolling my eyes at you,” she informed him. “Can you turn a little?”

Gritting his teeth, he lifted up and twisted his torso to give her better access to the rest of the wound, holding the position while she finished stitching.

“All done.” She tied off the last stitches. “Also…” She lightly flicked his abs as he strained to hold himself off the couch. “Nice.”

“Very professional,” he grunted as he settled back on the cushions.

She was shameless. “I’ll be professional when you start paying me,” she retorted, packing up the supplies again.

It was his turn to roll his eyes, but a small part of him enjoyed it. Not that he expected or even wanted anything more to grow between them, but it was a relief to find that their tumultuous relationship had finally stabilized into simple, steady friendship. Besides, Claire teasing him meant she didn’t think he’d screwed up too badly tonight.

Then again, she paused by the hallway, bag slung over her shoulder but not leaving yet. “So.”

He tugged his shirt back down. “So?” he echoed, exhausted now that his adrenaline was finally fading, but unwilling to kick her out of the apartment even though he was pretty sure, judging by her tone, he wouldn’t like what she was about to say.

“You didn’t wear your armor.”

“Ah.” He sat up, mindful of the fresh stitches. “Nope.”

“Even though it’s right there.” She pointed at the closet, which he’d left hanging open.

He stifled a yawn. “That a question?”

“I thought the whole point of getting that fancy armor was so you could, y’know, _wear_ it.”

He shrugged. “Sometimes it’s nice to go without it.”

“It’s nice to get stabbed, you mean?” Worry darkened her words. He pictured her with her brow furrowed. Dropping her bag in the hall, she came over to sit on the coffee table. “You know, I never _actually_ took you for a masochist. Just an idiot.”

Oh, great. This was shaping up to be one of the classic Claire interventions. “Not a masochist.” He didn’t enjoy pain as an end in itself. It was more like the things he needed to feel alive happened to be things that generally coincided with pain. “Sometimes the armor is just…too much.”

“Too much,” she repeated skeptically.

“It’s heavy,” he offered.

“Not so heavy you can’t do a backflip in it. I know. I’ve seen the footage.”

“It doesn’t breathe.”

“Yeah, for the same reason it’s hard to stick a knife through it. Funny how that works.”

He sighed. “I’m sorry, Claire. I’ll be more careful next time.”

She echoed his sigh. “I’m going to pretend to believe that, but only because you look like you’re two seconds from falling asleep.”

He stifled another yawn. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. Just get some rest, okay?” She squeezed his hand, then stood up. “And, just so you know, I’ve got a long shift tomorrow night. So sorry if the armor _doesn’t breathe_ or whatever, but I’m not gonna be available if you get stabbed again, so you should really either wear the armor or stay in.”

He couldn’t stay in, and she knew that as well as he did. As well as anyone. “I’ll wear the armor,” he promised, and he truly did intend to keep the promise, too. He couldn’t tell if she believed him, though, as she picked up her bag again. Her footsteps took her out of his apartment. He tracked her all the way downstairs until she got in a car and the car brought her out of his range.

Holding one hand over his new stitches, he pushed himself up and retreated into his bedroom. The slippery silk was cool on his skin. He closed his eyes, waiting for sleep to come.

It didn’t.

He listened as his watch ticked on and on and on from the bedside table.

Why wasn’t he falling asleep? He wasn’t even thinking of anything in particular.

The stitches were uncomfortable, though. A little. He was used to this specific discomfort. But still.

His watch kept ticking.

Matt considered getting up and putting it in a different room. He’d still hear it, though. And at least the ticking was a steady, repetitive sound.

He rolled over. The movement tugged at his stitches. He was so tired. Why couldn’t he sleep?

His watch kept ticking.

~

_“Foggy. Foggy. Foggy.”_

He forced his eyes open against the heavy weight of sleep. “Huh?” he asked the room at large.

_“Foggy. Foggy. Foggy.”_

Phone. Right. He grabbed it, swiping until he got the correct combination. “Fogs?”

_“Are you dying?”_

Matt rubbed at his eyes. “What?”

_“Not gonna lie, I almost hope you’re dying. Is that terrible? Sorry if that’s terrible.”_

“What…” Matt pushed himself back in the bed until he was sitting up against the headboard. “What are you talking about?”

_“Dude, it’s after ten. Again. Wait, are you actually-for-real dying? If so, I take back everything I just said.”_

Shit. Did his alarm even go off this morning? Matt had a sudden, bleary memory of waking up just long enough to shut the thing off again. He didn’t think he even opened his eyes.

 _“Matt.”_ Foggy’s voice had a bit more urgency to it.

“No, I’m coming, sorry, I just…” He had no excuse. No excuse whatsoever. “Give me twenty minutes. I’ll be there.”

Foggy sighed, a blast of static in Matt’s ear. _“How late were you out last night?”_

Was that relevant? Holding the phone between his ear and his shoulder, Matt made his way to the wardrobe, rifling through suits. “I don’t really know.”

 _“You have a concussion, don’t you.”_ Statement, not a question.

“I do not have a concussion,” Matt snapped, irrationally irritated and trying to maintain his balance while shimmying out of his pajama pants. “I got cut pretty bad. Claire came by. I dunno when she left.”

_“You needed Claire? You sure you should even come in today?”_

The mere idea of not going to work made him feel like he’d suddenly been unmoored. “Foggy. I’m fine. Stop worrying.” Besides, Foggy should really know by now that he’d never get anything done if he took a day off every time he needed Claire’s help.

_“Okay, so would you rather me be mad at you? Because either I’m gonna worry about you getting super hurt, or I’m gonna be mad at you for being late to work when you’re not super hurt. You pick.”_

The beginnings of a headache throbbed low in the base of Matt’s skull. He should probably be drinking more water. It was just easy to forget when he wasn’t really eating like normal either. “I plead the fifth,” he mumbled.

Foggy made an indignant sound. _“That means you’re not hurt!”_

Matt managed to pull on slacks without falling over. “You can’t use a defendant’s assertion of his rights as a sign of guilt. I move for a mistrial.”

Foggy was quiet for a moment, apparently thinking, but he didn’t come up with a rebuttal. Matt allowed himself a second or two to feel smug as he grabbed a shirt. _“Fine,”_ Foggy muttered at last. _“Just get over here. Hannah McCarty asked if she could come by again, so we’re meeting with her at eleven.”_

Matt froze halfway into a button-down. “What? Why? Did something happen?”

_“Dunno. She just said she wanted to update us, and she has a few questions.”_

Oh. Okay. That was fine. Matt nodded even though Foggy couldn’t see him, just to hammer home exactly how fine that was. “Great. I’ll be right there.”

~

Between his lateness and the impending meeting with Hannah McCarty, Matt already felt a bit frayed when he reached the office. That was jacked up to an eleven when the first thing he encountered stepping into the office was Karen.

She was on her way back to her office from the kitchen, but she froze in the lobby as soon as she saw him, and they both flushed with embarrassment. She spoke first: “Matt, I wanted to say—”

“I’m sorry,” he interrupted. “For, uh…for what I said yesterday. You didn’t deserve that.”

“No, I did.” She wet her lips. “You’re right, I was focusing too much on just taking down the bad guys. I wasn’t thinking about what it’d be like for someone like your client’s son.”

He shrugged. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not. And I didn’t mean to imply that you…that you don’t care about this. I know you do.”

He was wearing his glasses, but he averted his eyes nonetheless. “I appreciate that.”

“I appreciate you,” she said softly, taking a step closer. “Am I forgiven?”

His heart beat slightly faster at her proximity. At least she couldn’t hear it. “Of course. Not even in question.”

“Thank you.” Leaning in, she brushed a light kiss to his cheek.

Matt’s head spun. Before he could react, she’d pulled away, heart beating fast, and disappeared into her office. He momentarily forgot whatever else he’d been planning on doing.

That was…that meant nothing, really. She just felt guilty. And she probably felt bad for him. He hadn’t exactly been _subtle_ about how intense this case was for him. What if she put it together? She was brilliant, after all. What if she realized?

Maybe she already had. Maybe that was why she was being so gentle with him.

No—he was being paranoid. Shaking his head to clear it, he escaped into his own office. Unpacking his laptop and various supplies from his bag, he let the familiar motions be their own form of calming meditation.

He was still setting everything up when Foggy waltzed into his office and plunked a giant cinnamon roll down on his desk.

Matt blinked at it. “What’s that?”

Foggy pointed at it. “A cinnamon roll.”

“No, I’m aware of that.”

“Then why did you ask?”

Matt smiled a little. “I mean, why is it on my desk?”

“I put it there.”

“Stop being pedantic.”

“You’re the only one of the two of us who even knows what that word means.”

Matt treated Foggy to his best look of exasperation. “You used it in a brief not three days ago!”

“Did I?” Foggy asked innocently. “Weird.”

Matt raised his eyebrows. “Foggy.”

“It’s breakfast, you moron. Since I assume you didn’t have any.”

Matt sniffed suspiciously. “This isn’t breakfast. It’s sugar and carbohydrates.”

“Those, my friend, are the two quintessential elements of a good breakfast.”

“Mmm,” Matt said noncommittally. “I don’t usually have breakfast, you know.”

“Wait, what?” Foggy’s confusion hit Matt in the face. “I lived with you for three years. You ate breakfast.”

“I ate breakfast with you,” Matt corrected. “I just…don’t really need it.” He could _feel_ Foggy’s worry gearing up again, so he hastened to add: “It’s fine. It was part of training.”

That was, apparently, not very reassuring. “What, Stick starved you?” Foggy blurted out.

Matt was slightly offended. “Of course not. But he was training me for a _war_ , Foggy. Of course I needed to learn how to go without food, water, sleep. I got used to it. It’s not that bad.”

Foggy started waving his hands around. “Child abuse, Matt. What you’re describing is _child abuse_.”

Oh, there were things far worse. Matt almost laughed, but he knew exactly how well that would go over. “It was unorthodox, I’ll give you that.”

“Unortho—no, you know what? I’m ignoring that today. Please eat your cinnamon roll, Matt. For me.”

Matt rolled his eyes, but he took a sticky bite of cinnamon roll. Seemed like the path of least resistance.

He’d actually managed to eat all of it by the time he sensed Hannah McCarty enter the building. Normally, he wouldn’t have noticed her so soon, given that he was currently buried in tedious, contradictory case law. But he’d been waiting in no small amount of suspense for her arrival, so he recognized her immediately. He made himself wait to get up until she knocked on their door, though. Appearances.

He beat Foggy to the door. Again, appearances. He had to make up for completely shutting down last time. “Hello,” he said warmly. “Can we get you anything? Tea? Coffee?”

“I’m fine, thank you.” And she did seem better: hardened by anger rather than fighting just to hold herself together. She followed Matt and Foggy into the conference room where they all arranged themselves like last time and she wasted no time opening the conversation: “I went to the police.”

“We assumed so,” Matt said. “Detective Sergeant Brett Mahoney came to see us. He’s a friend.”

She sounded bemused. “You’re friends with a cop?”

“He’s one of the good ones,” Foggy told her.

“He asked if I felt safe.”

“Well, that might be standard,” Foggy said. “He might just—”

She interrupted and spoke to Matt. “He said you told him to.”

Matt adjusted his glasses, conscious of Foggy’s curious glance. “Uh, no. I didn’t tell him to talk to you about it. Just to make sure your son knows you’re safe.”

“Is there some reason I’m not?”

“I don’t know,” Matt admitted. “All I know is, it’s possible that the priest threatened your son not only with damnation but also with harm to you. If he told anyone what was happening. Whether he can _actually_ harm you is a separate issue.”

“ _Do_ you feel safe?” Foggy asked.

Hannah was still turned towards Matt. “I don’t know what Father Geary thinks he can do to me. He’s a skeleton.”

“Maybe nothing,” Matt said. “But what matters is what your son thinks he can do. Tell me, has Samuel been able to open up about what happened to him?”

She tapped her foot restlessly against the floor. “Not yet. I got him a notebook for journaling. I even set aside time for the two of us to do it together, so he doesn’t feel weird about it. I didn’t say it had anything to do with Father Geary, I just said it was a bonding thing we could do together. But he didn’t even write anything. He just drew.”

Matt tilted his head. “What did he draw? Could you see?”

“Spaceships,” she said wryly.

Fair. None of them were exactly qualified to try to interpret a child’s drawings, and Matt least of all. “He might write more as you continue normalizing the behavior. You could also try giving him prompts. For instance, both of you could write about a high point and a low point of the day, or the past week…or the past few months.”

“Am I supposed to lie about my low point?”

“Don’t lie,” Matt said quickly. “You can be less direct, though. You can say that your low point was taking him to the hospital, or something like that. But don’t lie.”

She let out a tense breath. “Okay.”

Matt changed the subject. “Can you tell us more about the priest? How long have you known him?”

She seemed relieved by the new line of questioning, tucking a sprig of unruly curls behind her ear. “We’ve been going to the church pretty much since we moved to Hell’s Kitchen. So…three years, now? And Father Geary has been the priest the entire time.”

“Would you say you know him well?”

Hannah’s jaw clenched. “He sought me out. I thought it was because he just wanted to help, since Sammy and I are alone. He always made me feel like he _cared_. Now I know it was just so he—it was just so he could—” She stopped and bit her lip. “I didn’t see it.”

Foggy was angry. Matt could tell, although Hannah probably couldn’t. “He must’ve been very good at what he was doing.”

“He’d bring us extra food, he’d check in on us, he’d remember things in our lives…he started asking if he could come to Sammy’s games at school. I thought he just cared _so much_ , you know?”

“Yeah, it’s not uncommon for people like him to try to establish ties with the child’s family,” Foggy said. “Helps build a relationship. Makes it harder for the parents to see through it, especially if the child tries to tell them what’s going on. But that didn’t work on you,” he said encouragingly. “You’re not fooled.”

“I was fooled,” she said icily.

Foggy winced minutely. “I just mean—you didn’t believe him over your son. That’s good, that’s really good. And now Samuel knows that you believe him, and that’s good too.”

Hannah seemed in no way reassured. “I let—” She clenched her jaw. “I let him take Sammy out. To lunch and things like that. I’m the reason they had even more time together.” She wiped furiously at her eyes. “What kind of mother _does_ that?”

“You didn’t know,” Matt said softly. “And Geary wouldn’t still be in his position if he weren’t very good at what he does.”

She tapped her foot faster against the floor. “I was thinking.”

Matt wished he had a pen or something to fidget with.

“I know you two can’t prosecute, but you seem to know so much about this, so I was thinking…even if criminal charges don’t stick, would…” She leaned forward over the table. “Would you be willing to take the case on civilly? I’ve been doing some research and it looks like it’s possible. It would be easier than getting a criminal conviction, wouldn’t it?”

Matt’s ears were ringing again.

But Foggy was nodding. “The burden of proof is lower, yeah. We just have to prove the case by a preponderance of the evidence, not by beyond a reasonable doubt. He wouldn’t go to prison, but there’s always the possibility of injunctions. Plus damages, which won’t come close to making up for what happened, but…it won’t hurt.”

Hannah’s body language changed; she became relieved and energized at the same time. “You think we’d have a shot?”

“Depends on what evidence we can dig up,” Foggy said. “But we could do our own investigation instead of waiting on police. Have you had the chance to meet Karen Page? She’s our PI, she’s _brilliant_ at uncovering—”

Matt coughed loudly. “Excuse me,” he muttered, standing up. “Water.” He made a show of groping for the doorway, then hurried out of the conference room into the kitchen. He tried to drag out the process of filling a paper cup with water from their cooler.

“Allergies,” Foggy was explaining apologetically. He probably thought Matt was disturbed by Hannah’s perfume or shampoo or something. With any luck, that assumption would never be challenged.

Hannah wasn’t interested in wasting time on sympathy for a lawyer. “Are you saying you’ll take the case? I can pay you. Not a lot, not right now, but my friend said you have incremental payment plans?”

“Yeah, that’s kinda our thing.” Foggy’s head turned briefly towards the door, then back to her. “I mean, I’ll have to confirm with my partner, but I don’t see why not.”

Matt closed his eyes.

Hannah sank back into the chair. “You have _no_ idea how much this means to me.”

He needed to get back in there. Holding onto his paper cup like a prop, he inched back into the room, dragging his hand over the doorframe and the back of his chair as if to orient himself. “Sorry about that.”

“Not a problem,” Hannah said immediately, tilting her head up at him. “I was just telling Mr. Nelson I can pay you incrementally, if that’s a concern.”

Matt set the cup on the table and his hands on his hips. “No, ah, that’s not the issue. Just…you might want to talk to your son about this before moving forward with a civil case. If he’s not willing to talk to _you_ about what happened, I doubt he’ll be eager to—”

“Or maybe this will help,” she cut in. “Now there’s something we can do about this besides just hoping the police can pin it on Geary. Maybe it’ll give him the confidence he needs to open up!”

“…Maybe,” Matt managed weakly.

“But you’re right.” Hannah abruptly stood up. “I’ll talk to him and let you know. Thank you.” And with that, she flung herself at Matt, who was closest, and wrapped her arms around him, resting her chin on his shoulder. “ _Thank you_.”

~

After Stick left, Matt thought about going to confession. But he always argued himself out of it. After all, he never actually did anything wrong with Stick. At least, he never hurt anyone. Stick talked about a war, and a war required an enemy, and so, yeah, maybe Stick was training Matt to sin against his enemy one day when he finally met them. But that was in the future.

Besides, what if the enemy really was that evil? In which case defeating them wasn’t really evil, was it?

So there was nothing at all that Matt needed to confess.

That was his logic, anyway. Which fell apart pretty quick when he took the time to call the anger festering in him for what it was. It’d always been there, but now thanks to Stick it was constantly on the verge of baring its teeth. Sometimes it felt justified, like if one of the kids was being a bully to someone else. It was harder to justify when Matt felt the urge to unleash his new skills on the bullies who thought the blind kid would be an easy target, or even on the unsuspecting fellow student asking if Matt needed help on a school project. See if they’d be so patronizing after he’d broken their nose.

He never acted on it except against the bullies, and those instances were few and far between, but the angry thoughts themselves still felt wrong. Sinful enough to make him hover outside the confessional, trying to get up the courage.

But Father Lantom wouldn’t understand unless Matt told him about Stick. But Stick was the _one thing_ Matt had that no one else knew about, that no one else could touch. Stick was _his_.

Confessing the anger without confessing about Stick wouldn’t make sense. Or, worse, Father Lantom wouldn’t take it seriously enough if he didn’t realize the actual harm Matt’s anger could accomplish.

And besides. Whatever Father Lantom knew or didn’t know about Stick, the fact remained that Father Lantom would be so, so disappointed in Matt. Matt couldn’t face it.

And so, when his class spent two weeks at a Catholic summer camp when he was fourteen, he’d hoped it would be easier to talk to Father Sheridan.

A stranger. Maybe Matt could talk to a stranger.

~

_My grandmother used to say I have the devil inside._

_Your grandmother is right._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Matthew 18:6 ~ "But whoever causes one of these little ones who believe in me to sin, it would be better for him to have a great millstone fastened around his neck and to be drowned in the depth of the sea."
> 
> Sometimes I think Matt's grandmother did more damage with that one comment than Stick did with all his push-people-away ninja teachings.


	5. Matthew 19:14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk who else is more stressed today, but here, have a cat. I mean, afterwards Matt talks to Samuel, so warnings for that, but also, cat.

Foggy was adamant. “We have to take this case,” he said as soon as Hannah left.

Matt walked straight past him into his own office. “At least wait until we know what Samuel thinks.”

“I’m gonna start researching!” Foggy yelled after him.

“You do that,” Matt muttered, shutting the door.

Overall, he did an excellent job of focusing on nothing but work. Not the new case, of course—they hadn’t even formally _taken_ it yet. So there was no point.

Not that Foggy was dissuaded. He stuck his head into Matt’s office every half hour or so with updates on what he’d discovered.

“Did you know New York opened a window in the statute of limitations specifically for people who were abused by a priest?”

Yes. Matt knew. As well as the fact that the civil statute was longer than the criminal statute anyway.

A few minutes later: “Dude, did you know some people have sued the Catholic church under RICO? Like, a lot. Like, there was this diocese in New Jersey that was sued under RICO and they settled all the way back in the nineties.”

RICO. The Racketeering Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act. Designed for the prosecution of organized crime, but also available for civil suits. It was the same act under which Fisk was charged for his crimes against the city. 

No, Matt did not know that anyone had successfully sued the Catholic church under RICO. “Well,” he said distantly, “it’s New Jersey. Anything can happen in New Jersey.”

Foggy came back in ten minutes later. “A settlement in LA gave each victim one point three million dollars. Can you imagine what that’d do for Hannah?”

“Foggy,” Matt snapped. “I’m trying to concentrate.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Foggy said, not sounding sorry at all. He wandered back to his office, mumbling under his breath about precedents.

Matt wondered, for a split second, what Father Sheridan would think if he heard about a lawsuit against the Catholic church with Matthew Murdock’s name attached.

He shoved the thought out of his head an instant later. The old man was probably dead anyway.

~

He walked by St. Matthew’s again on the way home, and again he heard nothing unusual or suspicious even though he spent about an hour lingering outside. Well, one of the nuns came by asking if he was lost, which he found mildly offensive, but he dismissed her with a charming smile and a story about waiting for a friend.

Even though nothing happened, the tension ratcheted up inside him with every passing second he spent outside of the church shielded by thick foliage.

He lasted about fifteen more minutes until it was, without warning, too much. Nothing was even _happening_ in there, and maybe that was what was getting to him. Whatever evils the priest was doing, he must not be doing them during normal hours. Or else it wasn’t happening at the church itself. Matt didn’t know; he just knew that standing there, waiting to hear the unthinkable, was too much to deal with right now.

He was such a coward.

He went straight home and skipped dinner. It was too early to put on the suit, so he sought refuge in Fogwell’s Gym instead, pummeling the bag barehanded until his knuckles were split, blood smeared across the stiff material. It did nothing to satiate his anger.

Nor did patrol that night. Hell’s Kitchen was calm, remarkably so for a Saturday. It was mostly just property crimes. He scared off the would-be thief or vandal or whatever, and that was pretty much that. Only got into a few fights, for which his split knuckles were probably thankful, even though the devil inside wanted more. He was still hurting from the night before, but tonight he hadn’t gotten any significant new injuries. Hadn’t even torn any of his stitches. Which was a relief—calling Claire would be a disaster, since he’d chosen his black mask over armor again and not remembered his promise to her until he was already out in the city.

He stretched out the patrol later than usual, hoping he’d find a more challenging fight and battling the guilt because did he really want innocent people to be in danger just so he could have an outlet? He picked up the pace instead, racing through the city as if he actually had somewhere to be. By the time he finally called it, his legs were exhausted even if the rest of him wasn’t.

He didn’t know exactly what time it was, but he guessed around four in the morning? Some people, not many, were starting to wake up. He didn’t feel any extra heat from the sun, but he should get home. Maybe, if he didn’t think about it, he’d be able to fall asleep.

He was too energized, though, despite the fact that he had to pretend his feet weren’t dragging as he came up to the building closest to his apartment. This combination of wired and exhausted got under his skin. Mind controlled the body, right? Well, it sure didn’t feel like it.

Whatever. It was what it was, and all he could do was deal with it.

He jumped, and didn’t land as softly as usual. He was loud enough to disturb the small creature on the opposite side of the roof, whose heartrate spiked in alarm.

Matt froze.

Oh. Just a cat. Fairly young, too. Maybe two or three years old? It didn’t smell like any of his neighbors, or any humans at all, really. Not wearing a collar, either. A stray, then.

Matt’s lips twitched. “I feel you,” he muttered.

And then he felt really stupid for standing there, in his mask and everything, talking to a stray cat.

But the cat, despite its initial panic, hadn’t run off. It remained perfectly still, muscles tense.

“Sorry for bothering you,” Matt offered at a more normal volume, trying to politely encourage the cat to leave, but his voice was apparently not enough to actually scare it off.

Its head tilted. It let out a tiny, curious _mrrow_.

Matt frowned.

The cat repeated the noise, and tilted its head to the opposite side.

“What,” Matt said flatly.

Its reaction to that made zero sense. It lifted its head, raised its tail in the air, and started trotting _towards_ him.

Matt almost backed up on instinct. It wasn’t like he was afraid of cats, that would be stupid, but they _smelled_ and…and he really was too on-edge after not getting enough fights.

But the cat didn’t notice his unease. Or if it did, it was choosing not to care. The latter was probably more likely, for a cat. It crossed the roof, halting directly in front of him.

 _Mrrow_ , it repeated, although it sounded less curious now, and more demanding. It was a girl, he thought. Probably. He wasn’t really inclined to verify.

“What?” Matt asked automatically, and rolled his eyes at himself again. Still, he crouched down—slowly—and half-extended his hand.

To his shock, the cat reared up, front paws dangling, and butted the back of her head against Matt’s gloved hand.

That was—huh.

Matt didn’t know what to make of that. But he found himself staying in a crouch, keeping his hand still as the cat rubbed her head against him. Eventually, he held his breath and slowly rotated his hand, scratching gently behind her ears.

She started—oh.

_Purring._

As much as he didn’t like the smell or the way their hair got everywhere, something about the sound of a cat’s purr always settled deep in his chest. Made him feel warm and alive and like he was doing something good, even if that was something as small as making this little creature happy.

Shifting, Matt sat down cross-legged. The cat startled backwards at his movement, but then approached again, sniffing along his right leg, then rubbing her cheek against his knee.

Carefully, carefully, Matt pulled off one of his gloves. She seemed skeptical of this at first, but he draped his hand casually across his knee, giving her time to get used to it. His lips twitched at the tickle of her whiskers across the back of his hand. He felt her breath, tiny puffs of warmer air. Then, suddenly, the cool touch of her nose.

Despite himself, Matt smiled.

She permitted him to scratch behind her ears and run his hand along her body. She must be doing a decent job of grooming herself, at least, because she didn’t shed too much fur even when he scritched at the base of her tail, making her arch her back in delight. Her purring grew louder.

Well, at least he’d done something right tonight.

Then, without any warning he could discern, he felt the tiny, concentrated weight of a paw on his leg. Before he could figure out what to do about that, there was a second paw, and then the cat was crawling into his lap.

“Hey, no,” he protested, scooping her up.

She _mrrrrrrrow_ ’d her objection.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, setting her carefully back on the ground. “Sorry, but I gotta…” Shower. Sleep. Go to mass in a few hours. What time was it?

Her tail twitched in disapproval.

“Sorry.” Sidestepping her, he headed for the door to his apartment.

She followed, paws padding quietly behind him. He turned the handle, only to realize that she was practically underneath him.

“Hey,” he warned.

She didn’t move.

“Cat.”

She brushed her tail against his leg.

Matt sighed. Then he gently, _gently_ nudged her with his foot.

She hopped away, small body sparking with indignation.

“Sorry,” he said lamely, and ducked inside his apartment before she could follow, shutting the door firmly behind him.

~

He confessed as much as he could think of. Here, with this stranger, he didn’t have to worry about it somehow getting back to Father Lantom or the nuns. So he confessed his anger, his frustration, his doubts. He confessed the ingratitude he felt towards St. Agnes for all its restrictions and towards the nuns for how they just didn’t understand and even towards God for letting his life turn out like this.

_I’m sorry, Father. And I’m sorry because—I’m not always sorry._

_These sins run deep, my son._

_What do I have to do?_

_…I need to see your face._

~

He was forced awake by the loud chiming of his alarm clock. Keeping his eyes shut, he found the right button by touch. _Se-ven o-clock a-m_ , the mechanical voice announced. It sounded somehow satisfied, like it found pleasure in knowing exactly how much he didn’t want to get up.

Then again, he didn’t have to.

He hit another button, guaranteeing that the alarm wouldn’t go off again. Then he rolled over, pressing his face back into the pillow.

When he woke up, he was sweating. The sun was streaming in through his window. _El-e-ven thir-ty-five a-m_ , his alarm clock informed him.

Guilt sat heavily on his chest. He’d missed mass. Wasn’t really sure if he’d missed it deliberately, and didn’t want to dissect that too much.

But he didn’t want to sleep the day away (more than he already had). Getting up, he made himself take a shower and drink water and even eat something. Then he cleared away space in his living room, sat down cross-legged, and tried to meditate.

He started by concentrating on the physical, zeroing in on all the places of soreness and tension in his body, relaxing his muscles one by one, taking deep, even breaths. So far, so good.

Then he moved on to the mental. Sorting through memories and thoughts. Recent failures, recent successes. The argument with Karen flashed to mind. He’d essentially called her heartless, and yet _she’d_ been the one to beg _him_ for forgiveness. What kind of person was he to treat her like that?

He’d have to apologize again tomorrow. Thoroughly, this time. Assuming she let him; she probably thought he’d done nothing wrong. Which wasn’t like her, exactly…she was normally the first person to call him on his most thoughtless behavior. He wasn’t sure why that would change now.

Unless…unless she could tell that something was wrong with him. Unless she was treating him like he was made of glass because _she knew he was_. Like Father Sheridan had left radioactive handprints all over Matt, a shining signal unmistakable to anyone who so much as glanced at him.

Shit. He could feel it: his stomach tightening, twisting. Fingers clenching into fists. Breathing getting shallow. Heart beating too fast. All his physical meditative work, undone.

What the hell? It was _years_ ago. He should be over this by now.

Matt swallowed hard and started reciting, “Out of my distress, I called on the Lord. The Lord answered me and set me free.”

His heartrate began to slow.

“The Lord is on my side, I will not fear,” he continued, purposefully relaxing his hands, letting them fall open on his knees. “What can man do to me?”

A lot. Actually.

“The Lord is on my side as my helper. I shall look in triumph on those who hate me.”

Better. He felt better.

He started over from the beginning. “Out of my distress, I called on the Lord. The Lord answered me and set me free…”

After about forty-five minutes, his phone started chirping: _“Maggie. Maggie. Maggie.”_

He jumped a little, startled. Her name sent a shock of… _something_ through him.

_“Maggie. Maggie. Maggie.”_

Getting up, he hurried back to the bedroom where he’d left his phone. “Hello?”

 _“Hello.”_ She sounded a little wary, a little breathless, the way she always did when she talked to him now that he knew the truth. _“How are you? I’m just checking in because I didn’t see you at mass.”_

Unprepared with an excuse, he felt like a kid called on at school who didn’t know the answer. “Oh, uh…I was working.”

_“On the Lord’s day?”_

“It’s a complicated case. Lots of files. Gotta have it ready by this week.” The lie gathered its own steam. It almost felt good, having this one, tiny thing he could control.

_“Oh. Well, maybe I’ll see you for Wednesday mass?”_

“Maybe.” The last thing he needed was to get pinned down to anything right now.

_“Or maybe you and I could do something. Just the two of us?”_

The hope in her voice was impossible to ignore. “Maybe,” he answered. “I don’t know, we…we have a lot going on at the firm right now. I don’t know when I’ll be free.”

 _“Of course,”_ she said quickly. _“I understand. I don’t want to pressure you.”_

“Right. Appreciate that.”

 _“Although…”_ There was a bit of humor in her voice now, a trace of the snark she’d wielded so effectively before her secret was exposed. _“Father Lantom might not have a problem with pressuring you. He was going to call you himself before I offered to do it.”_

Matt kneaded at his forehead. “I just missed one mass.” He hadn’t missed one since putting Fisk away, true. For the past few months, going to mass had seemed as central to rebuilding his life— _all_ of his life—as going to work. He wasn’t so sure now where that conviction even came from.

_“All I’m saying is, he might show up at your apartment if you miss another. I’m just giving you fair warning.”_

He managed a shallow laugh. “Again, I appreciate it.”

Her voice changed. Became gentle, almost hesitant. _“Is there anything I can do for you? If you’re so busy, I could bring you food or something.”_

She was trying, he had to give her that. Being around her right now, though…. “No, I’m fine. We’re fine. Thanks, though.”

_“If you need anything, just ask.”_

“I will. Thanks. Talk to you soon.” It wasn’t a promise so much as a dismissal. He almost regretted it, but there it was.

 _“Talk to you soon,”_ she repeated, and her breathing hitched; he heard it even over the phone. _“I love you.”_

He still didn’t know how he felt when she said that. All he knew was that it put him in the awful position of either saying it back, regardless of whether he meant it, or confirming that she’d ruined their relationship entirely. Today, it was easier to simply keep lying. “I love you too,” he said, and hung up.

He wondered if there was a polite way to ask her to please stay out of his life until the case with the child molesting priest was over.

If it ever was.

~

He went to St. Matthew’s. Maybe the reason he hadn’t heard anything was because he was going on weekdays. Maybe the priest had more access on Sunday.

Mass had just let out, and people flooded the sidewalk in fancy clothes. The air was thick with too-strong cologne and perfume. Matt hovered outside, listening while simultaneously trying to focus on other things like the squirrels fighting up in a tree, when he heard a familiar voice.

“You ready to go, sweetheart?”

It was Hannah McCarty, clutching the strap of her purse and talking to a young boy dressed in cheap slacks and a stiff button-down and smelling strongly of hair gel.

Matt turned in their direction, head tilted. The boy was chattering to some friends, but he paused to heave an elongated sigh. “ _Mom_.”

Samuel?

What were they doing _here?_ Why would they come back here?

Whatever the reason, Hannah didn’t seem happy about it. Her entire body was tense, but there was a soreness to her muscles like she’d been tense for a while now. Probably for however long they’d been at the church.

“Sammy.” Hannah approached the group of boys. “We need to go.”

“Now?” Samuel whined.

“What about this?” Hannah was trying to make her voice sound brighter. “We’ll have a big hangout at our place tomorrow. Pizza, games, all of it. Sound good?”

All the boys were immediately on board with that plan, and it enabled Hannah to detach Samuel from the group with no more complaints. Instead, Samuel was chattering about what kind of pizza he wanted while Hannah led him down the sidewalk.

Towards Matt, who realized too late that he wasn’t exactly inconspicuous.

Hannah stopped. “Mr. Murdock?”

Matt turned quickly in her direction. “Hello? Who’s that?”

Her cheeks flushed. “Oh, it’s…it’s me, Hannah. And Samuel. C’mere, Samuel.” She nudged the boy towards Matt, even though Samuel seemed instantly suspicious.

“Ah.” Matt chuckled self-deprecatingly. “Sorry, didn’t realize it was you.”

Hannah nudged Samuel again. “Samuel, this is Mr. Murdock. He’s an attorney.”

Samuel crossed his arms over his chest. “Are you two dating?”

“ _What?_ ” Hannah squawked. “No, no, we’re just, um…”

Matt decided to let her explain it.

“Because you’ve been acting weird,” Samuel accused.

Hannah’s breathing hitched a couple of times like she didn’t know how to respond. Taking a risk, Matt stepped closer, brushing his hand over Hannah’s arm.

“Do you mind if I talk to him?” he asked quietly.

“About what?” Samuel demanded.

Hannah’s head turned as she glanced between the two of them. “Oh, um…if you want to.”

“Over there?” Matt asked, gesturing behind himself. “There’s a bench, I think.”

“What’s going on?” Samuel insisted.

“I can wait here,” Hannah agreed, fiddling with the strap of her purse.

“Thanks.” Matt turned to Samuel. “Samuel? Do you mind?”

The kid’s curiosity seemed to make the decision for him. He followed Matt over to the bench where they sat down together, leaving about two feet between them. Matt rested his cane between his legs, letting it lean against his shoulder.

Samuel wasted no time with his interrogation. “Who are you really?”

“I really am an attorney,” Matt promised. “Your mom came to see me at my office a while back.”

“Why?”

“Listen, Samuel—do you want me to call you Samuel?”

“You can call me Sammy. _If_ you’re really not dating my mom.”

Matt smiled. “Thanks, Sammy. And I’m not, I promise. So, uh…here’s the thing. When your mom came to see me, it was because she’s been worried about you. She told me something happened to you. Do you want to know what she told me?”

Samuel hesitated. “Was it bad?”

That could mean a lot of things. “It was sad.”

Samuel lowered his head, mumbling in the direction of his lap: “She told you about Father Geary?”

There. There it was. “Yeah,” Matt said quietly.

“What’d she say about him?”

Matt took a second to evaluate. It was hard to tell, since they’d only just met, but even though Samuel was clearly nervous, but he didn’t seem angry or scared. His head was still turned away, but his body leaned towards Matt like he wanted the conversation to continue. Matt kept his voice down, mindful of people still milling around on the sidewalk. “She said he touched you in a way that he shouldn’t have. But she didn’t tell me any details.”

Samuel swallowed hard.

Matt cleared his throat. “Look, if…if it helps, you’re not the only one. Who’s had this kind of thing happen.”

Samuel raised his head.

He hadn’t planned this when he asked to speak to Samuel, and it felt exactly like jumping off the edge of a roof, not knowing where he’d land but knowing there was someone below who needed his help. “It happened to me. Actually.”

Samuel was frozen, heart beating fast, apparently staring at him. “It did?”

“I was at a summer camp,” Matt began, every sense still zeroed in on Samuel, looking for the slightest hint that Samuel was hearing too much. “I went to confession with him twice a day for two weeks.”

“Why?”

“I had a, uh…” How to explain the devil inside? “I had an anger problem,” Matt said lamely, well aware that his explanation fell short of the truth and that his use of the past tense was a lie.

But Samuel didn’t object or seem confused.

“And he, uh…he assigned penance. Which turned into…something else.” He didn’t elaborate. Nor did he specify how the priest justified it. He didn’t need to burden Sam with those details. “So, uh…I understand that kind of thing. What you’ve been through, I mean.”

Samuel sniffed.

“I wondered if you could tell me a little more about what happened. Or, um, about what you’re feeling.”

Somewhere in front of them, a car door slammed. Samuel flinched, adrenaline spiking.

“Only if you want to,” Matt added, pretending he hadn’t noticed.

Samuel picked at his dress pants. “Is my mom very worried?”

Matt tilted his head. Hannah was far enough away to be unable to hear their low voices, turning her phone over and over in her hands. “Yeah. She loves you a lot.”

“If I tell you what happened, she’ll just be more worried.”

“She already knows something bad happened,” Matt pointed out gently. “But if you don’t tell anyone about it, that means you have to deal with it alone. She doesn’t want that for you.”

Samuel took his time thinking about it, but Matt could tell the exact moment he decided to speak: he ducked his head and hunched over himself, shoulders curving inwards like he wanted to disappear. “Father Geary’s been…doing stuff with me. And making me do stuff. For a while now.” He fidgeted with the fabric of his pants. “I don’t know why he noticed me. But he started by being really nice to me. Like, paying all this attention to me and letting me do special things.”

“Special things?”

Samuel scuffed the heel of his shoe against a leg of the bench. “He’d let me go places in church where kids aren’t supposed to go. And he’d take me places. Like, he got me ice cream once. A couple times he’s taken me really far away on trips. Stuff like that.” Heat grew in Samuel’s cheeks. “He didn’t do stuff like that with anyone else. Just me.” He paused. “Did your priest do anything like that?”

“He’s not my priest,” Matt corrected automatically. He immediately softened his voice. “And no. He didn’t.” Matt hadn’t gotten special treatment. Father Sheridan hadn’t had to work that hard—Matt had been too easy.

“And he, um…” More heat rose from Samuel’s face. “He gave me other stuff. Illegal stuff.”

“Can you tell me what kind of stuff?” Matt asked carefully.

“You won’t tell?”

“I can’t promise that, and I won’t make you a promise I can’t keep.”

Samuel shoved his hands deeper into his pocket. “Then I can’t tell you. I’ll just get in more trouble.”

“Hey, Sammy?” Matt cocked his head to the side. “Tell you what. I can promise you this much: if you tell me, and if it’s something your mom needs to know about, I promise I can go with you to explain it to her. If you want me to. And I can…I can try to help her understand that it wasn’t your fault, whatever it was.”

Samuel’s heart pounded faster, louder. “It was, um…cigarettes,” he said, and then held his breath, no doubt waiting for Matt to explode in adult indignation or launch into a lecture.

But Matt just nodded. “Anything else?”

Samuel seemed to take his lack of a shocked reaction as an encouragement. “Um…some movies,” Sam mumbled.

“What kind of movies?”

“…Bad ones. They made me feel, um…weird.”

Matt breathed in and out steadily through his nose. “Do you still have those movies?”

“Just one,” Samuel whispered. “It’s hidden under my bed. Father Geary won’t let me take any of the other ones home.”

“Right.” Matt tried to figure out the best way to respond to this. “Do you, uh…do you think you could tell your mom about the movies?”

“Do I have to?”

“I think she needs to know about this,” Matt said slowly. “Again, it’s not your fault. But it’s very important for her to know.” Not only because the fact that the priest had given Samuel what sounded like porn would strengthen the case tremendously, but also because she’d need to be able to help Samuel process what he’d seen. “I’ll go with you to explain it to her,” he offered again. “If you want.”

Samuel took a while to think about that. “Okay,” he said finally. “Um. But, I’m just wondering…”

Matt nodded encouragingly.

“Is Father Geary gonna get in trouble?”

Matt didn’t know how to answer that. He bought himself time. “What do you mean?”

“I know Mom was talking to the police. Is Father Geary gonna go to jail?”

“I don’t know, Sammy.”

“Is, um, is…” Samuel’s voice was painfully tight. “Is he gonna have to stop being a priest?”

“I don’t know. What do _you_ want to happen?”

The smell of salt hung in the air as Samuel fought back tears. “…I don’t know.” 

Matt didn’t know what to do. He wanted to hold him, but he was afraid of touching him. “It’s okay,” he said softly instead. “You don’t have to know. You don’t have to—”

“I don’t want him to do any of that to anyone else,” Samuel interrupted, voice thick and clogged but determined. Then he paused, clenching his hands together. “But…but I don’t want it to be my fault if he gets in trouble.”

“Sammy, listen to me very carefully. _Nothing_ that’s happening is your fault. Geary made his choice, and whatever consequences find him are his fault. Not yours. Do you understand me?”

Samuel bit down hard on his trembling lower lip and didn’t answer.

And Matt understood, he really did. There were some things people couldn’t just _accept_ , no matter how much they might want to. This wasn’t like the law, where you just had to lay out your argument clearly and logically enough and then the judge would concede that you were right. This was so much more complicated.

~

They only talked for a few more minutes before Samuel started getting restless. Matt brought him back to his mother, gave her a smile, and brushed away her thanks. He squeezed Samuel’s shoulder once in goodbye before walking off in the opposite direction they were going, even though it took him farther away from his apartment. He walked aimlessly, mindlessly.

He should be angry. Why wasn’t he angry?

Instead, he just felt…sad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Matthew 19:14 ~ "But Jesus said, 'Let the little children come to me and do not hinder them, for to such belongs the kingdom of heaven.'"
> 
> A couple of things, to be clear: First, Matt uses a verse from Psalms to kinda calm himself down, but it'll be addressed later that, while reciting prayers or mantras or positive thoughts or whatever is a great short-term tool, it's not reliable over the long-term. Especially if you use those things to avoid working through trauma entirely. I just wanted to mention that disclaimer now because it won't be addressed in the story for quite a while still.
> 
> Second, Matt shouldn't have told Samuel what happened to him without talking to Hannah or at least knowing Samuel better. But Matt's a disaster. Like, there won't really be negative consequences for it in the story, but it's still not a good idea to share your own personal trauma with a kid *so quickly.*
> 
> One last note: survey: what in the world should Matt name this cat? I'm thinking Ginsburg right now, in honor of RBG, and also because the trend among lawyers of naming pets after Supreme Court justices is absolutely hilarious to me, but I'm open to suggestions.


	6. Psalm 68:5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Matt has a bit of a rough time (surprise, surprise), and there's a line where he thinks some pretty disparaging (ableist, really) things about "pretending" to be blind. These are absolutely not my views, nor are they really Matt's either. But he's emotional, and yet trying as hard as he can not to associate the emotions with the actual cause of them, so he needs another reason to be upset.

The next day, Matt was doing fine.

He’d put the conversation with Samuel well out of mind, and now he was making great progress with one of their cases. It was an immigration case, and Matt took vicious pleasure in discovering that the immigrations office had mistranslated his client’s Spanish.

He was adding scathing commentary to his motion, which he might delete later if Foggy thought it was too aggressive, when the office phone rang. Since secretarial duties no longer fell solely within Karen’s purview, all three of them alternated in handling them. Today was Matt’s day.

“Nelson and Murdock,” he said, “this is Murdock.”

Of all the things he was expecting, it was not to hear Hannah McCarty on the other end of the line. “Hi, Mr. Murdock, it’s Hannah.” Her voice was tense. “I was wondering if we could talk.”

Oh. Great. This was—Matt had been anticipating this, kind of, since talking to Samuel, but he also didn’t know what to do now that it was happening. He shouldn’t have told Samuel about what happened to him without letting Hannah know, or at least without knowing Samuel better first, so of course she was upset. He’d tried to be careful, but for all he knew he could’ve retraumatized Samuel. “Sure, of course,” he said, trying to sound calm. “My partner and I are free tomorrow, if you—”

“I was actually hoping to just talk with you.”

Great. Of course. He only hoped she wouldn’t say anything about this to Foggy. Matt forced a smile, hoping she’d hear it in his voice. “Sure thing. Can I take you out for coffee?” If he sounded a bit desperate, it was only because he was. Desperate for them to _not_ have this conversation in the office.

“I won’t say no to coffee,” she said, to his monumental relief.

“Okay, great. Um…I usually take my lunch break in about an hour. Can I meet you then? There’s a place just down the street from my office.”

“Yeah, I know it. I’ll see you in an hour, then?”

He confirmed, and hung up, and tried not to panic prematurely. He got up and paced his office for a few minutes, then forced himself to sit back down and get something accomplished.

By the time lunch rolled around, Matt had successfully kept himself from panicking. He easily dodged Foggy and Karen as he slipped outside, which meant he wouldn’t have to field any of their questions about where he was going, and got to the coffee shop about five minutes early. He placed his own order, a BLT sandwich and a macchiato, just for something to do, and settled at a table to wait. The shop was busy, crowded during the lunch hour, and he distracted himself by shifting his attention from conversation to conversation around the room, picking up the snatches of life. He was most intimate with this city’s pain, so it was sometimes refreshing to eavesdrop on its ordinary everydayness.

Until Hannah arrived. She placed her own order, then made her way to his table, clearing her throat when she got close. “Um, Mr. Murdock? It’s me.”

He turned in her direction. “Hi. You can call me Matt, you know.”

“Only if you call me Hannah.” She sat opposite him. “Thanks for meeting me.”

He wondered if he should just _ask_ if Samuel told her about Matt. Rip the band aid off, so to speak. But that’d be hard to explain if in fact Samuel _hadn’t_ told her. He cleared his throat. “So…”

“Samuel told me what you said.”

So that answered that. “I apologize. I should have talked to you first.”

Hannah shook her head. “But after he told me what you said, he told me what happened to him. He _finally_ told me. I guess it must’ve helped, knowing…knowing he isn’t the only one?”

“I hope so,” Matt said quietly. She didn’t seem upset. Well, she did, but not at Matt. Any relief was mixed in with the grief and anger. “If you, uh, if you don’t want me to be involved with this case, given my…my background, I completely—”

“That’s not a problem,” she said quickly. “Not for me, anyway. But I don’t want to ask you to be involved with something you’re not comfortable with.”

“I’ve moved on,” he assured her. “It won’t affect my—” He broke off, startling at a crashing sound about a block away.

“Mr. Murdock?” Hannah’s voice was heavy with concern.

It sounded like a car crash, but not a serious one, and too far away for him to do anything about during the day anyway. “Sorry, I thought I…heard something. Uh.” He adjusted his glasses. “As I was saying. My, uh, own experiences won’t affect how I handle this case. If that’s what you’re worried about.”

“No, no, I didn’t mean to…um, I mean…I trust you,” she finished lamely. “You and Mr. Nelson.”

Matt cleared his throat. “Right. About Mr. Nelson…”

“You haven’t told him,” she realized aloud.

“Not yet. It’s not…” What, not important? Not relevant? “Not something he needs to know. It wasn’t even that bad, what happened to me.”

At that, she suddenly _radiated_ concern. Her breathing hitched as she opened her mouth.

“Anyway,” Matt said firmly, not about to debate it. “Is Samuel willing to talk to the police?”

“Not yet.” She wrapped her arms around herself, hugging herself. “I brought it up, and he looked like he was gonna be sick.”

“It’ll take time. The officer on the case, though, Mahoney? He really is one of the good ones. Our firm has worked…not _with_ him, per se, but in tandem with him on some really interesting cases that maybe Samuel would like to hear about. I’d be happy to talk to Samuel again, if you think that would help.” If he could make Brett seem less like a stranger and more like his own kind of hero, maybe Samuel would feel more comfortable.

She was nodding before he’d finished speaking. “I’d appreciate it. And, um…” She twisted a strand of hair around her finger. “I don’t want to put you on the spot, you can _absolutely_ say no, but…I have to ask. Would you…would you be willing to talk to Samuel more about…about what you have in common?”

Matt blinked behind his glasses. “Oh, uh…”

“Or, I mean, about how you’ve dealt with it,” she hurried on. “It’s just that I think he needs that. He doesn’t have many men he looks up to in his life, except his coaches, but they’re the kind of men who just tell the kids to rub some dirt on it when they get hurt. Not really sympathetic, you know?”

Matt shifted his weight. “No, yeah, I get it. I’d be happy to help. But I’m not a therapist.”

“And believe me, I want him to go to one, but I also don’t want to force him.”

The words came out before he really thought them through: “I can talk with him about that as well, then.” Wait, what? Why did he offer that? What was he supposed to tell a kid about _therapy?_

But Hannah practically melted in relief. “Really? You’d do that?”

Well, now Matt was committed. “Sure.”

“Thank you so much. I really think, if he just has more people supporting him…when it’s just his mother, that’s hard, but if there’s someone like you in his life…”

Matt wet his lips. “Yeah. It’s good that he has people to talk to.” Coping with something like this without support or guidance was all but impossible.

Matt would know.

~

_Father, what can I do?_

_I don’t know, Matty._ Father Sheridan sighed; Matt still remembered the sound of his sigh. Like he hated to be the one to tell Matt this. _There’s a darkness in you. It runs deep. Deeper, maybe, than I’ve ever seen._ A hand moved to rest on Matt’s thigh, just high enough to be uncomfortable but not so high that Matt actually knew something was wrong. _God must flinch when He sees you._

Matt’s mouth had gone dry. To this day, the words still echoed in his head. He hadn’t known it at the time, but they would remain seared on his heart.

_God must flinch when He sees you._

If Matt was so awful, so far from redemption, it made sense that his penance would have to be…different.

The fingers flitted down his body. What exactly they were searching for, Matt didn’t know. This wasn’t the time to question things. If he just lied there, if he just stayed still no matter what, maybe it would all be over faster. He closed his eyes.

~

He woke to the phantom sensation of fingers still lingering on his body—and he was hard. His own body’s betrayal snapped something inside him; he didn’t even think, just twisted and punched the divider behind his bed as hard as he could. But he missed the beveled glass panes and struck the wooden frame instead.

Wood splintered and the metacarpal bones across his left hand fractured. Doubling over, he pressed his face into the mattress and let out a scream of equal parts pain and rage.

It was about five minutes before he could emerge from the mattress without feeling like he was about to punch something else. He raised his head just in time to hear a barrage of frantic knocks on the front door. It took him a second to focus enough to figure out who was outside, and he cursed under his breath when he did.

Fran.

She was gonna wake up the whole floor. Getting up, he forced his way into a hoodie, grinding his teeth together as he pulled the sleeve down over his injured hand. Fran knocked again, incessant, and he hurried down the hall, crammed his glasses onto his face, and jerked the door open.

“ _What?_ ” he demanded.

She took a quick step back, startled like a rabbit, and wrapped her dressing gown more securely around herself. “There…there was a scream.”

Because of course she just _assumed_ the scream came from the blind man’s apartment. “Not from here,” he growled.

But she held her ground. “Sounded like it was from here.”

“Fran, I’m _fine_.” Actually, he was painfully aware that he was acting nothing like his usual self, but caring about that was literally impossible at the moment. “Check down the hall.”

Fran drew herself up to her full, unimpressive height. “All right, I will.”

“Good,” he spat out, and shoved the door closed, listening anxiously as she hesitated. Finally, she turned around, but she didn’t go down the hall or check on anyone else. She retreated back to her own apartment, slippers shuffling, mumbling to herself that she’d just been trying to help, and see if she’d ever bother again.

Matt leaned towards the door. He should apologize. But he couldn’t bring himself to open it, let alone go across to Fran’s apartment. Rubbing his uninjured hand over his face, he turned and trudged back to his bedroom where he lied awake for however many hours it took for his alarm to go off.

~

He actually managed to get up on time, although that was probably just because he hadn’t managed to fall back asleep. Getting dressed for work was painful, which was stupid because he regularly got beat up by criminals, but suddenly enlisting his broken hand to do up the buttons of his shirt was almost too much.

He stopped outside the main door to their office, surreptitiously, pulling his jacket sleeve over his hand as far as he could. But the jacket wasn’t a hoodie, and he already knew he wasn’t hiding anything. So he waited until Foggy was on the phone and Karen was distracted before nudging the door open.

He was wrong: Karen was not distracted. She looked up immediately, hair brushing across her shoulders, and darted out of the office to confront him. “What happened to your hand?”

He tried to brush past her. “It’s fine.”

“Is it _broken?_ ” She reached out and, before he could stop her, took his elbow.

He pulled free so hard she stumbled. “I told you, I’m fine! What, you think I can’t handle a few broken fingers? Is that what you think?”

Her hand, still half-extended towards him, slowly lowered back to her side. “No…”

He barely even heard her. “You do realize I get hurt worse than this pretty much every night, right? D’you even know what kind of scumbags I take down? You think I could beat them if I let something like this stop me? I’m not such a—”

“ _Hey_ ,” she said, firing up. “What is _wrong_ with you?”

“ _Nothing is wrong with me!_ ”

She froze. His voice still echoed through the building, taking long enough to fade away for him to realize, like a punch to the gut, how outrageous he was acting.

“Uh, Matt?” That was Foggy’s voice, timid, from behind.

No, he couldn’t do this. Not right now. Turning on the ball of his foot, he stormed into his office and slammed the door behind him. Getting his laptop out of his bag with just one hand was harder than it should be, and he had to give up the effort to pace for a few minutes, fighting to get back under control before he threw his laptop across the room or something.

Past his door, Foggy was dragging Karen out of the office entirely. They were going down the stairs now. The front door of the building opened and closed.

“Not yet, not yet,” Foggy was whispering.

Right—they had to get far enough away to talk about him without him hearing. He was morbidly curious what they were saying. Were they more upset about his broken hand or his attitude? Did they even stop to think about how he felt, knowing they were out there gossiping about him? They knew he could tell, right? There was literally no other reason for them both to leave the office like this without letting him know.

They probably didn’t care if he could tell. That was how fed up with him they were.

Matt squashed the urge to punch something else. That would have to wait for tonight. He needed to just— _calm down_. Get himself under control. This wasn’t like him; it was like something else had taken over.

_The mind controls the body._

But what controlled the mind?

His breathing was too shallow. He needed to move. He needed to _run_. Sprint until he had no choice but to gasp for breath. If he weren’t _blind_ , he could do just that. Even in a suit. It’d be weird, sure, but nothing weirder than what people might see any other day in New York.

Foggy and Karen, they had no idea how stifling it was to constantly have to pretend to be handicapped, pathetic, incapable—

“Matt?”

He froze, completely thrown off because that wasn’t Foggy or Karen. That was _Claire._

She was standing uncertainly in the lobby, still in her scrubs and smelling of the hospital with her heavy bag over her shoulder.

What was she doing here? Was he dreaming? He gave a sharp shake of his head, but no, she was still there.

Curious despite himself, he stepped out into the main room, even though Foggy and Karen were there too and the last thing he wanted right now was to be near either of them after losing it like that. He ignored them, focusing on Claire. “What are you doing here?”

“Foggy called.” Her voice was carefully neutral, just a professional nurse. “Said your hand was broken.”

Like an idiot, he flexed the injured fingers as if to prove that it wasn’t that bad. His plan backfired; it was exactly that bad, and he couldn’t keep from wincing.

“Yep.” Claire came closer. “Can I take a look?”

Might as well. She was here anyway. Besides, he needed to make up for yelling this morning, so the least he could do was try to cooperate. He held out his hand.

“Hmmm.” Her fingers were gentle as she examined him. It almost didn’t hurt. “This wasn’t from last night, was it?”

He swallowed. “Uh…no.”

“This morning?”

He just nodded.

“Wanna tell me what happened?”

Cooperation could only go so far.

“What happened?” she repeated.

Conscious of Foggy and Karen’s eyes on him, of the way they were holding their breath, he forced an uneven shrug.

“Really.” To his immense relief, she didn’t question him further. “How many fractures?”

“Four. One on each bone, except for…” He ghosted a finger over the foremost knuckle. Two fractures there.

“Thanks, X-Ray.” The words were teasing, but her voice wasn’t. Releasing his hand, she dug through her bag. “Lucky for you, Foggy told me what was up. I swiped a local before coming over here.”

Taking a step back, he shook his head. “I don’t need—”

“Matt.” She didn’t even glance up from her bag. “I’m about to reduce four fractures in three bones. Do not be stupid right now.”

“You think I can’t—” He stopped as Karen tensed. Rephrased. “I can handle pain.”

“You hear that, ladies and gentlemen?” Claire’s voice was the audial equivalent of an eyeroll. “The man can handle pain. Raise your hand if you _didn’t_ know that.”

He gritted his teeth. “Claire.”

She focused on readying a needle. “Trust me, Matt. Everyone here knows you could break both your feet and still backflip off a roof. So. No need to posture.”

He wasn’t—he wasn’t _posturing_.

“Hold still.” She approached again, brandishing the needle.

Stick would die before he let someone inject him with something. And he’d piss himself laughing if he knew Matt needed some numbness just to deal with a bone reduction. Matt took another step back. “Claire. I’m serious.”

“So am I.” She reached for his left wrist.

He reacted instinctively: he pivoted, shifting the whole left side of his body out of her reach while his right hand moved before he could stop it, batting the needle from her grasp.

Claire inhaled sharply.

“Damn,” Foggy muttered.

Matt was as shocked as the rest of them. This wasn’t him. He wasn’t _like this_. “S-sorry,” he stammered. “Sorry, I didn’t…”

Claire was outwardly calm, but her heart was racing. “Matt, can we talk?”

“No, it’s—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—look, give me the local, I don’t care.”

“I think it’s pretty obvious that you care a lot, actually.”

“Claire…” He hated the helplessness creeping into his tone, but he couldn’t stop it. Besides, what did they _expect?_ Calling Claire in, ambushing him like this.

“Can we go in your office?” she asked.

What, and leave Foggy and Karen out here to wonder what was going on? Wonder what they were saying? He shook his head. “Just—give me the local. Please.”

Claire bit her lip, but she bent down to pick up the needle, wiping it off. “I know you’re just saying that.”

He couldn’t win. He said he didn’t want it and she argued with him; he said he did want it and she didn’t believe him. “Just give it to me.”

“I’m not injecting you with something without your consent. Even if I think you’re being really stupid for not wanting it.”

“Then skip the local.” That was what he wanted anyway. She was the one making this more complicated than it needed to be. Not that he expected anyone else in the room to get that.

Her whole body was rigid. She was upset. Angry. Worried. She tucked the needle back into her bag. “Kitchen?” she suggested.

He shrugged, and followed her, letting his hand hover over the counter. It hurt to lay it flat.

She stood beside him, close enough that he could easily feel her heat, and gently lowered his hand to the counter, and didn’t comment when he hissed between his teeth. “Tell me when,” she said matter-of-factly, brushing her fingers over the injury.

“There,” he said stiffly. “It needs to go down.”

“Okay.” And that was all the warning he got before she started manipulating his finger.

Bone scraped against bone as his nerves were lit on fire. His other hand clenched into a fist and he couldn’t bite back a groan as he pressed his face into her shoulder, the fabric of her scrubs crinkling. “ _Ngghh_.”

“Okay.” Her voice was quiet. “What about the next one?”

“To the left,” he rasped.

“Got it.”

Bones shifted again. He slammed his other hand down on the counter, shoulders curling forward, barely holding back a scream.

Claire’s heart thudded in his ears, but her voice was even as she said, “Last one. You said there are two breaks?”

He kept his eyes squeezed shut, afraid that opening them would let tears escape. “Yeah, uh…here, and…” He pointed again. “Both need to go up.”

“Got it. Brace yourself.” And she actually did give him a second to brace himself before getting to work.

Not that it did any good, because the scream he’d been fighting finally tore out of his chest. It was more fury than pain, fury at himself and at Foggy and Karen and this whole situation, but he doubted anyone else could tell the difference.

Claire rubbed his back like he was sick. “I know it hurts. I’m sorry.”

He struggled to get his breath back. “Nothing to be sorry for,” he managed to say after a long and awkward silence filled with nothing but the sounds of him rasping.

She didn’t respond to him anyway, but she gave him a little nudge. “C’mon, I’ve got a splint for you.”

“Claire—” He cut himself off when his voice came out sounding more like a whine.

“If you don’t wear a splint, I _know_ you’ll end up punching something else and all my hard work will be undone.” She brought him back out into the lobby and dug through the bag. “Do you want something for your full hand, or would you rather have one splint per finger?”

“I don’t care.” It was going to be terrible either way.

“Cool, let’s go with a full hand splint. Easier to put on.” She pulled out something vaguely similar to the hand wraps he wore at the gym and eased it on, siding his fingers into stiff pockets and securing the strap around his wrist. “Does that feel okay?”

No, he hated it, but he knew what she meant. “Yeah.”

“Great. Thanks for not fighting me on that.” She pulled out her phone while he felt quietly embarrassed. “I’ve gotta get back to work. Anyone else need any help before I go?”

“I have a pretty wicked papercut,” Foggy offered. “Might need, like, a stitch.”

Claire snorted, but made a show of inspecting the side of Foggy’s thumb. “I think you’ll live,” she informed him gravely. Then her head swiveled towards Matt. “Speaking of stitches, though, how are yours holding up?”

“What?” He was busy fidgeting with his new splint.

She set her hand on his side where he’d taken that knife a few nights ago. “Nothing torn?”

“Nothing torn,” he reported, caught between more embarrassment that she just _assumed_ he’d ripped his stitches and pathetic pride that he hadn’t.

“Good.” Her hand fell away. “You should be good to go, then.” She grabbed her bag, slung it over her shoulder, and headed for the door. But then she stopped and turned back. “Matt?” There was a new edge to her voice.

He just wanted her to leave, just wanted this day to be over. “Yeah?”

“Just so you know. I don’t appreciate hurting you like that.”

“…You were helping me,” he said confusedly.

“While causing you needless pain. You don’t have to take it just because—” She cut herself off. “Whatever. Just, maybe remember that even if _you_ are some damn robot that doesn’t feel pain, _I_ am still a person with feelings, and _I_ do not appreciate doing that to you. All right?”

Guilt swam nauseatingly through his stomach. He’d never…he’d never considered it like that. The position he was putting her in. “I…”

“Save it. Take care of yourself, all right? If you can.” And with that, she turned and left the office before he could muster a response. The silence left in her wake was deafening.

Matt shifted his weight, all too aware of Foggy and Karen still standing there like they had nothing better to do. He felt like a kid scolded by the nuns in front of the entire class. Neither of them seemed inclined to do anything to break up the tension, so he finally turned on his heel, heading for his office.

But Foggy intercepted him. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Matt blinked. What was that, some kind of trick question?

Foggy seemed to ready himself for something. “Look, Matt. I don’t know what’s going on with you today, but…I think you should go home.”

It felt exactly like a punch to the gut. “Excuse me?”

“You’re hurt, you’re upset—”

“I’m not upset.”

Foggy was quiet for five full seconds, letting Matt really stew in the absurdity of his own defense. “Claire said you didn’t break your hand last night,” he said at last. “It was this morning. So, what, were you attacked in your own apartment? Or did you just feel the need to punch something?”

Matt chewed mutinously on the inside of his cheek.

“I’m gonna go with you punching something,” Foggy went on. “So, either you tell me what made you so upset that you punched something hard enough to break multiple bones in your hand, or you go home and _deal_ with it. Whatever it is. Your choice.”

“You’re not my mother, Foggy.”

“Do you really wanna fight me on this?” Foggy’s voice was cold and authoritative in a way Matt wasn’t used to.

Logically, there was nothing Foggy could do to make Matt leave. But Foggy was serious. And not in the overly emotional way he sometimes got when he was angry or hurt about a Daredevil-related thing; at least then, Matt could hold onto his knowledge that the city needed Daredevil, no matter how much Foggy hated it. Now, though? Now it was like Foggy knew as well as Matt did how stupid and unnecessary this injury was, and he knew how close Matt was to going over some kind of edge that not even Matt could justify.

Foggy was right. Matt should go home. But he couldn’t just raise the white flag. He was a Murdock. If Murdocks went down, they went down fighting.

Foggy sighed. “Go home, Matt.”

Then again, if Matt left because Foggy told him to, that wasn’t the same thing as quitting. “Can I at least get my stuff first?” he asked in a frigid voice that sounded nothing like his own.

Foggy just waved his hand.

Permission granted, Matt tried to keep his head up as went into his office only long enough to pack everything up. Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he stepped back out into the lobby where Foggy and Karen were still waiting.

He should say something. He had to give them something, because leaving them with nothing but silence was just asking them to come up with their own speculations and interpretations. But he was on a trajectory now. Momentum was taking him outside, and he didn’t have the energy to slow it down long enough to come up with something to say.

He escaped out the door, and at least Foggy and Karen had the decency to wait until he’d left the building entirely before they started whispering about him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Psalm 68:5 ~ "Father of the fatherless and protector of widows is God in his holy habitation."


	7. 1 John 3:7

Matt’s hand throbbed all the way back home, where he set up his laptop and braille keyboard on the coffee table. Tugging his tie loose, he sat down on the couch, determined to work hard enough to forget everything that just happened. But his hand still throbbed, and the continual pain kept dragging his brain back to this morning. To the dreams. To… _everything_.

With a growl of frustration, he jerked his earbuds out and crossed the room to the stand next to his fridge, feeling for the right bottle by touch and popping two aspirin in his mouth. As he walked back to the couch, he tried not to think about the implications that this was enough to get him to actually take meds.

He was listening to a monotonous electronic voice reading out a dissenting opinion when it hit him: he had to know. Why it was so urgent, he had no idea, but it wasn’t the kind of instinct he could question. A cold, heavy rock settled in his stomach as he switched to a new tab, and typed in three words: _Father Sheridan arrested._

He barely breathed as the voice in his ear began reading out the results. Nothing but other people named Sheridan getting arrested, and an article or two about someone getting arrested in a cities or towns named Sheridan.

He tried again: _priest arrested, Camp Saint Nicholas._

The results were split between random priests arrested in various scandals, and reports of arrests of people named Nicholas.

Sheridan probably wasn’t even at that camp anymore. If he _had_ been reported within the church, he probably would’ve been transferred. That was…that was what the church did. Took priests who were _problematic_ , and quietly moved them someplace where no one knew them. And no one ever told the priest’s new parishioners what kind of monster had arrived to shepherd them, of course. Oh, no. Couldn’t have that.

What was Sheridan’s first name? He didn’t remember. But it seemed like no one else had reported Sheridan either. Maybe…maybe that was it? He did it to Matt, and no one else? If he’d hurt anyone else at that same camp, at least at the same time, Matt would’ve known. He would’ve heard it, or smelled it. Sheridan must’ve been content with only Matt for those two weeks.

The thought made Matt’s skin crawl. He slammed the laptop shut.

Pushing the coffee table away, he sat back, lowering his head and clasping his hands behind his neck. It was stupid to assume Sheridan hadn’t abused more people after Matt left that camp. And every single one of Sheridan’s subsequent victims were people Matt could’ve saved if he’d just…if he’d just _told_ someone.

Why hadn’t he told anyone?

_Didn’t know what was happening, didn’t know it was wrong—no, I knew it was wrong, I just didn’t know why—didn’t know how to explain it—didn’t know who to tell—no one would’ve believed me—I deserved it anyway—Father Sheridan said it was God’s will—Father Sheridan said I liked it and maybe he was right—_

Matt shot to his feet, pushing his hand through his hair. It didn’t matter, it was _over_.

Except it wasn’t. Not for all the people Sheridan was continuing to hurt.

Unless he was dead?

Was it sinful to hope he was dead?

Biting the inside of his cheek, Matt reached for his laptop like it was a live bomb. Opened it. Typed: _Father Sheridan obituary, New York._

The resulting list of names was long. None sounded familiar. But of course they didn’t sound familiar; Matt didn’t remember Sheridan’s first name. If he’d ever known it at all.

The old man was probably dead.

Which meant it really was over.

Matt closed his laptop again, more gently this time. It was still too early to go out, but he couldn’t just sit there. There was something…buzzing, building, deep inside, and he was afraid sitting still would let it erupt.

The solution was obvious: he could pass the time between now and tonight at Fogwell’s. He headed to his bedroom to change clothes, but stopped at a light sound overhead. Was he imagining it?

No, tiny paws were walking across his roof. The cat, it seemed, was back.

Matt listened as the cat made her way to the very edge of the roof, balancing effortlessly as she paced along the edge until she found a place to sit. Matt wondered what about that specific spot was so great. A good view? A good angle for smelling the breeze? Or maybe it was just warm from the sun. The point was, she sounded peaceful, and Matt found that by listening, he could enjoy a small amount of vicarious peace.

Then he heard it: the faint rumbling of the cat’s stomach. He probably wouldn’t have heard it at all if he hadn’t been listening so intently. As it was, he felt a pang of sympathy.

Feeling weirdly self-indulgent, given that he was doing this for another creature rather than for himself, he fetched some lunch meat from his fridge and opened the door to the roof. The cat stiffened up, but didn’t flee. He noted that she smelled of mostly-dried blood, including the blood of another cat. She’d gotten in a fight, then, but must’ve done fairly well because she didn’t seem too hurt.

He stepped out onto the roof, intending to toss the lunch meat for the cat but deciding at the last second to hold onto it instead. Crouching down, he held it out.

The cat resisted for about twenty seconds before trotting across. He felt her whiskers poking his hand. The next thing he knew, the cat had snatched the lunch meat away, swallowing it all in three quick gulps.

“Hungry?” Matt asked softly.

The cat responded with a sad little, _mrrow_.

He shouldn’t feed her. She would just come back.

Then again, was that such a bad thing? He absently scratched the back of her ears, and she pressed into his touch, winding her tail along his arm. Her fur was cold.

“Is no one else petting you?” he asked sadly. She still didn’t smell like any other people. Did she get any physical contact that wasn’t fights with other cats?

Her answer was a loud meow, so loud and sudden and strangely definitive that he pulled back a little. She responded by butting up against his hand again.

“Not sure what you mean,” he murmured, obligingly giving her more scritches, “but okay.”

She started purring, so he assumed nothing was wrong. When he got tired of crouching and shifted to sitting down, she wasted no time before crawling into his lap, kneading his legs with her forepaws. Her claws flexed against him, but they didn’t hurt. He wondered what she looked like.

“This is not a permanent arrangement,” he warned.

She was unperturbed.

“Hey, where do you sleep?” He inhaled deeply, trying to get a map of where she’d been. He caught a hint of the locally-owned burger place a few blocks down. She must scavenge for food there. The rest of the scents caught on her fur were a blur, like she never stayed long in one place and rarely returned once she’d left.

Her right ear twitched. He scratched behind it, and she pressed deeper into his touch.

“You should really find somewhere to stay,” he informed her. “It’s just gonna get colder.”

She mewed in response.

“You’re talkative tonight.”

She mewed again.

“Or are you just making fun of me?”

She simply purred even more loudly, the vibrations rumbling through her.

Suddenly, a loud _clanging_ noise from the alley behind the apartment made them both jump. Her claws dug deeper into him. A second later, she took off, sprinting across the roof and leaping onto the next and the next, leaving tiny punctures in his pants from her claws. Even if he could get the pants repaired, he knew he’d still be able to feel the damage, but that wasn’t why he was disappointed.

~

He set his alarm for earlier than usual the next morning, and miraculously managed to actually get up when it went off. He felt groggy, and sore from the previous night of patrolling (he took the splint off, but only because he didn’t want to advertise that Daredevil was injured; he didn’t actually use his left hand, so he thought Claire would be…halfway proud of him, at least). But he was up.

Compared to the last few mornings, this was a new personal best.

He dressed quickly and even made himself eat a little breakfast before going out. Starting the day off with protein immediately offset the lingering tendrils of exhaustion pulling at him, as did the cool weather that successfully woke him up the rest of the way. He chose walking over a cab and set a brisk pace that cut at least a minute off his walk to his destination: an expensive confectionary that carried the best candies he’d ever smelled.

Karen liked dark chocolate. He bought a box of truffles which wouldn’t make up for yelling at her yesterday but it sure wouldn’t hurt either. Tucking it under his arm, he started back towards the office, swinging his cane back and forth with his other hand.

When he reached the office, he realized he’d actually beaten Foggy there. He honestly couldn’t remember the last time that happened. Karen was already at work, though, which was the important thing. Stepping into the lobby, he hovered outside her door, listening to her rapid typing and getting up the courage to say something.

He needed to stop cowering. Setting his cane aside, he transitioned the box to his right hand and approached the threshold. “Karen?”

“I’m working.” She didn’t look up.

Still mad at him, then. Well, he couldn’t say he didn’t deserve it. He risked taking a single step into her office. “I have something for you.”

“Really not in the—” But she made the mistake of looking up, and she let out a tiny gasp. “Is that chocolate?”

Figuring it was best to let the gift speak for itself, he nodded.

She was already out of her chair and halfway around her desk. Then she paused. “Is this apology chocolate?”

He took a deep breath. “Karen, the way I treated you yesterday was—”

“This _is_ apology chocolate! Do you seriously think you can buy my forgiveness with chocolate?”

“That’s not what I—not what I—”

“Let me try one.” She got the lid of the box open and popped a truffle into her mouth and couldn’t quite muffle the resulting sound of bliss. “Okay,” she mumbled, mouth full. “This is exceptional apology chocolate.”

He relaxed—slightly.

“Do you have an actual apology to go with it?”

Apologizing, he knew, was not his strong suit. But he’d workshopped this one on the way to the office. “Karen, I know you were worried about me yesterday, and you had every right to be. I was upset, and I took it out on you when you were just trying to show me that you cared. You didn’t deserve that, and I’m sorry. Very sorry.”

“Wow. How long did it take you to script that out?”

Ten solid minutes, but he wasn’t going to admit that.

“Sorry, now I’m being an asshole. It’s a good apology.” She plucked another truffle out of the box. “And you’re forgiven.”

He handed her the box. “They’re all for you. I recommend not letting Foggy see.”

“Yeah, I’ve got a secret—” She stopped. “Of course you know about my secret drawer.”

The desk she’d gotten for herself had one extra large drawer with a false bottom. It generally smelled of chocolate. “I’ve never touched it, I swear.”

“I’m still gonna booby trap it now.” She paused. “Hey…Matt?”

“Yeah?”

“You do know I’d forgive you anyway, right? Even without the chocolates?”

“Oh—thank you.” Matt hadn’t actually thought about it, and now that he _was_ thinking about it, the concept of receiving her forgiveness without having to earn it was such a surprise that he was forced to conclude that, no, he hadn’t known that. “Well, I should—”

“Foggy told me more about your case,” she interrupted, taking a step closer like she didn’t want him to leave, which was…confusing. “He says you guys _are_ suing the Catholic church.”

Matt slipped his hands into his pockets. “Foggy doesn’t know for sure. We’re waiting to hear what Samuel thinks. His opinion is the one that matters.”

“Still.” Karen cocked her head at him. “How are you doing with that?”

Matt half-shrugged. “If Samuel wants to, there’s no reason not to try.”

“You sure?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Come again?”

“I just mean…” She hesitated. “You were pretty upset about the idea last time.”

“Because—because I’m worried about Samuel. But if he thinks this is what he needs…there’s no reason not to,” he repeated lamely.

“You’re not worried about the firm?” she pressed.

Why did she have to be such a reporter? Never could let anything go. “That’s secondary,” he said reluctantly. “Samuel is more important.” Besides, it was far from guaranteed that Samuel would want this. And…and maybe Matt could convince Foggy to wait before filing a complaint. They could do more investigation first. If the investigation turned up evidence enough to give them a solid case, then Matt could feel marginally better about the whole thing. Or if the investigation turned up nothing…well, then, at least they could say they’d tried.

“True.” Karen shifted her weight a little. “So you know, I think it’s pretty fantastic that you guys are going for it, however it turns out. Not many people would even consider doing something like this.”

“It’s the right thing to do,” Matt said automatically, hating himself a little because it _was_ , but that didn’t mean he’d be considering it if it weren’t for Hannah and Foggy’s insistence.

“And you know I’ll help however I can, right?”

“I know.” Matt adjusted his glasses. “Well, I should, uh…get to it.”

“Right.” She tucked her hair behind her ears. “Have a good day today, Matt.”

~

At his desk, he dragged his fingers over his braille display. Maybe it was refreshing the dots faster than normal, because he struggled to keep up.

He was just so tired. He probably shouldn’t have gotten up so early. He could’ve gotten Karen’s truffles on his lunch break. Not like he even ate lunch. But then he wouldn’t have been able to apologize right away. All in all, he’d probably made the right call.

He was just so tired. But he couldn’t stop working. There was too much to do.

Well, no, there wasn’t.

Well, there was. He had to make up for everything he hadn’t done yesterday.

Except he was still technically ahead, even with taking a full day off, and even though he was working at about a half-pace today thanks to his broken hand.

But there was too much that _could be done_ , and Matt couldn’t tear himself away from his desk as long as there was something left to accomplish, something left to check off the never-ending list. Was he chasing the elusive thrill of finding a hole in the opposing party’s argument, or finding just the right case to back up his client’s position? Maybe, but so what? Better than wallowing in things he couldn’t change, things he only regretted, things that _hurt_ —

He pulled off his glasses. They were digging into his nose and over his ears. “Out of my distress, I called on the Lord,” he muttered quickly, under his breath. “The Lord answered me and set me free. The Lord is on my side, I will not fear. What can man do to me?”

His heartrate slowed again.

“What can man do to me?” he repeated.

Nothing.

See? He was fine. He _was_.

Nudging his braille display aside, he switched to using his computer’s audio, so at least he wouldn’t have to use his hands. He turned the volume up and forced himself to focus on the automated voice droning in his ears, and closed his eyes.

~

Heavy weight, trapping him.

_Hold still, Matty. You know I’m just trying to help you._

Hands. Too many hands. So many hands it didn’t make sense. Hot and slick with sweat.

Matt bucked. Couldn’t get free.

Hands wrapped around his wrists. They were old. Objectively frail, even though they felt like steel. Matt should be able to fight him off. Should, should, _should_.

His wrists were pinned.

The weight shifted.

Matt screamed.

“Dude!”

Matt shoved away from his desk so hard and so fast that his worthless office chair tipped over. He crashed to the floor. Panting, sweating, scrambling to get away from the voice. His back slammed into the wall, but he didn’t stop moving until he’d pushed himself into the nearest corner, heart still thundering in his ears.

“Matt!”

The world on fire recentered. He immediately scanned the rest of the office. Empty; even Karen must’ve stepped out. He brought his senses in closer to realize the side of his shirt was warm and wet. Blood. He’d ripped two of his stitches and his broken fingers were screaming at him.

And Foggy was crouching in front of him, albeit a safe couple of feet away, like he thought getting any closer would end with a fist in his face. Both Matt’s hands were shaking. Even now that he knew it was Foggy, he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t lash out if Foggy tried to get closer. He wasn’t sure that was something he could control.

“Uh,” Foggy said, sounding extremely freaked out. “Do you need Claire?”

Matt took a few deep breaths, slowing his heartrate, and shifted. Feeling the stickiness of his bloodied shirt, he gritted his teeth. “I can take care of it.”

“You sure, man?”

“I’m sure.” It came out harsh, but Matt was too frayed to apologize. Besides, he really didn’t need Claire. He had spare medical supplies and sundry tucked into random drawers in his desk, constituting about half a first aid kit. “I’m fine.” He just…wasn’t ready to leave this corner yet.

“You’re fine,” Foggy echoed. _His_ heart was still beating way too fast.

Knowing there was nothing he could say that wouldn’t be incriminating, Matt let his head fall back against the wall, closed his eyes, and kept silent.

Foggy’s breathing hitched. “Matt, are you okay?”

How was he supposed to _respond_ to that? Matt barked out a laugh. Seemed like the best option.

Not if Foggy’s heartrate had anything to say. “Okay,” Foggy said slowly. “You’re kinda scaring me. If I’m being honest, actually, you’ve _been_ scaring me. For a while now.”

“Sorry.” The response was automatic. Matt kept his eyes closed, wishing for his glasses, and focused on maintaining an even pattern of breathing. “Sorry. I, uh…” Where was he? Office. Right. Obviously. Reaching up, he rubbed at his face and felt a crease across his cheek. From his desk? From his desk. “I fell asleep,” he realized aloud.

“…Yeah, man.” Foggy’s heartrate was showing no signs of slowing down. “I think you had a nightmare or something.”

Shit. Matt searched for something normal to say. “Did I, uh…was I loud? I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“ _So_ not the problem,” Foggy muttered under his breath.

Matt tensed. “There’s a problem?”

“Um…” Foggy’s breath hitched again, but he bit back whatever he wanted to say. The floor creaked as he moved from crouching to sitting down. Like…like he was planning on _staying_ here, like this was going to be a _conversation_.

“It’s fine, I’m fine,” Matt rambled. “Just—haven’t been sleeping well, sorry, won’t happen again, I just need to, um…” He trailed off. Helpless. The anxiety was tight across his chest, and winding tighter, because Foggy wasn’t nodding along or laughing it off or _standing up to leave_. He was just…sitting there.

Foggy took a deep breath. “Listen, man. I just wanna say…I mean, I need you to know I kinda…heard some stuff.”

 _Shit._ Matt squeezed his eyes tighter.

“You were telling someone to get off. And to, uh…” Foggy’s temperature rose. “Not touch you.”

Had he really said that?

Okay. No need to panic. That should be easy to explain away. Matt got into fights every night, and sometimes a bad guy got on top of him for a bit. Not often, not often at all, but sometimes.

But Matt opened his mouth.

The explanation wouldn’t come. It was like some horrible, treacherous part of Matt _wanted_ Foggy to figure it out.

“Look, I…” Foggy paused again. Gathering his words or checking Matt’s mood, Matt didn’t know. He just knew the pause was too long. Left too much time for them both to think of horrible things. “I know you had a hard time growing up. And there weren’t always, y’know…people. There for you.”

Matt kept his eyes closed. Where was Foggy even going with this?

“And, just…I was thinking. With this case, and all…”

Shit.

“I mean, it’s pretty obvious that it’s kinda…getting to you. You know? And I’m worried…”

 _Don’t be,_ Matt wanted to say, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t.

“And I was thinking, like, if the nuns and everyone didn’t know about your senses…”

Shit, shit, shit.

“…You must’ve spent a lot of time alone with Stick, right?”

Matt’s eyes snapped open. “What?”

Foggy shifted uncomfortably. “I mean, it’s not like he could go around teaching you to do backflips and stuff with the nuns watching.”

“Right,” Matt agreed after a beat. “He couldn’t.”

“So did—” Foggy stopped. “I swear, I’m not trying to put you on the spot, but just—if you _want_ to tell me—I mean, you don’t _have_ to, but I—I’m kinda—I’m kinda worried. Like, a lot. About you. Um.” Foggy stopped again.

Matt’s brain worked at a snail’s pace compared to usual. “Why are you talking about Stick?”

“Okay, I’m just gonna say it.” Foggy took a deep breath. “Did he rape you?”

Matt’s eyes flew wide. “ _Stick?_ ”

“I don’t know!” Foggy hunched over himself a little. Guilty? Or defensive? Or because he didn’t actually want to know? “He taught you all that ninja crap, but he also taught you to push people away and isolate yourself, and that’s…that’s classic, man. _You know_ that’s classic. And, I don’t know, he taught you to survive shit like going without food or whatever, so maybe this was something he thought you needed to know how to _survive_ too, I don’t know…”

Matt blinked. “No, Foggy.”

Foggy froze up, like moving at all would break some kind of spell. “No?” he asked, the tiniest hint of hope in his voice.

“No,” Matt repeated, very clearly. “Stick didn’t do anything like that.”

“ _Oh._ ” Foggy _wilted_ with relief. “Okay. Good. Sorry, man, I’m—I’m really sorry. I just freaked out, you know?”

“It’s not a problem,” Matt said lightly. “I’m glad you asked. It was…considerate.”

Foggy sniffed loudly. “I care about you. Like, a sort of ridiculous amount.”

“I know,” Matt said, and it came out more sincerely than he’d meant it. A moment of silence settled over them, heavy. Matt cleared his throat. “Uh…do you want to stay here on the floor, or…?”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry.” Foggy got up, and Matt followed suit a second later. Foggy handed him his glasses, and Matt slipped them on. Foggy edged towards the door, and Matt righted his chair again. But then Foggy stopped in the doorway and turned back. “Matt?”

Matt’s fingers tightened on the padding of his chair. “Yeah?”

“You…you would tell me, wouldn’t you?” Foggy’s voice was small. “I mean—you don’t have to. That’s not what I meant. But—you know you _can_ tell me, right? And I won’t…judge. Or anything. Just tell me you know that.” He held his breath.

Matt smiled. “I know.”

Foggy let out the breath in a tiny exhale. “Okay. Good. See you, then.”

“See you,” Matt repeated, and didn’t move until Foggy left the room.

His fingers had left indents in the chair.

~

New lines were crossed every day until, one day, the sixth day, the priest made Matt enjoy it. And at that moment, without Matt even realizing it, the line blurred between penance and sin itself.

He was informed shortly afterwards, in no uncertain terms, that his reaction was a sign that whatever was broken in him was all but irreparable.

Not quite irreparable, of course, because that would free Matt from the need to keep coming back for confession.

_Bless me, Father, for I have—_

_What makes you think God could ever forgive you for this?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 John 3:7 ~ "Little children, let no one deceive you."
> 
> So the obvious question is why Matt would ever keep a secret knowing that it could possibly allow someone else to get hurt. After all, canon!Matt is probably too much of a martyr to let that happen. But this isn't *quite* canon!Matt, and I hope as the story progresses you see more of why he didn't tell anyone. This chapter has a bit of an explanation, but it's more of his conscious thoughts rather than the psychology underpinning them. Anyway, I just wanted to mention this in the hopes that you guys let me know, as the story progresses, if you also find this AU!Matt's behavior realistic, or if you think it still needs more explanation by the end.
> 
> In other news, fun fact: I've never written a story this fast in my life.


	8. Hebrews 4:14-16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up: this is a more religion-intensive chapter. I'm not Catholic, and I've only been to Catholic mass/ceremonies a few times, so if this chapter feels off to those of you who know better, feel free to blame it on a mix of ignorance and creative license.

Matt was deep asleep a few days later, not even dreaming for once, when he suddenly woke up at some unknown hour to a small but distinct _meow_ coming from the roof access door. He raised his eyes up towards the ceiling, fighting back his annoyance until he realized that the chill coming from his bedroom window was evidence of an icy mist outside.

_Meow._

“Damnit,” Matt mumbled, pushing back the covers.

Even the floor was cold under his bare feet, and he shivered before grabbing a hoodie and climbing the stairs.

 _Meow?_ The sound was louder now, and inquisitive. Maybe even hopeful, or maybe Matt was reading into things.

He opened the door and was hit by a blast of ice particles hanging in the air. “What—”

The cat darted in between his legs, bounded down the stairs, and slipped under the couch.

“Huh,” Matt said stupidly. Shutting the door before more cold could seep into the apartment, he made his way back down the stairs. “You do realize you can’t stay here, right.”

The cat made no response.

“Are you gonna rip up my furniture?”

No response.

Matt sighed, and went into the kitchen to get a bowl of water. On second thought, he decided to give the cat some more lunch meat as well. He opened the package, and immediately sensed tiny paws and heat approaching.

“Smells good?” he asked, and the cat answered by rearing up on her hind legs before he could even crouch down to meet her. She wolfed the lunch meat down, then let out an imperial _mrreow_. But Matt shook his head. “I don’t want you throwing up in here.” He didn’t know if lunch meat was even good for her. He’d have to get her actual cat food.

Wait, what?

Rather than try to figure out where _t_ _hat_ thought had come from, he gave her the bowl of water, scratched her once behind the ears, and stepped around her to go back to bed, shedding his hoodie as he went. He left the door open, though. He wanted to hear immediately if she started scratching at his couch. Or eating something she shouldn’t. Or throwing up.

Flat on his back in bed, he draped his arm over his eyes. What was he _doing?_

Whatever he was doing, he could figure it out in the morning. Or whenever the cat woke him up again, yowling about something. This was a terrible idea. But he couldn’t leave her outside to freeze. She trusted him.

A fact proved true a few minutes later, when he heard tiny paws pad into the bedroom. She circled the perimeter of the room, apparently checking out his wardrobe and anything else that seemed suspicious. Every so often, she rubbed her cheek against a surface, claiming the room with her scent. Matt couldn’t bring himself to be annoyed, even when she made her way over to the bed.

He held his breath.

Her muscles bunched, and she launched herself into the air, landing gracefully on the far side of the bed. She sniffed at the comforter and made a delighted trilling sound that gave Matt a weird, warm feeling in his chest. She came closer, nosing at his hand first as if to verify that it was in fact still him. He rotated his hand until it was palm up, and she rubbed her cheek against his fingers. Then, without warning or further ado, she climbed onto his bare chest and curled up, a puddle of warm fluff. Her purrs vibrated through him even as he held perfectly still.

Maybe he wouldn’t be getting any more sleep tonight after all. But he couldn’t say he minded.

Instead, he fell asleep immediately.

~

When he woke up again, the cat was next to him, curled in a pool of sunlight on the corner of his bed. He couldn’t let her stay here, though. It was Sunday again, and he was determined to go to mass, and he couldn’t leave her behind without a litter box.

 _Not_ that he was actually contemplating getting a litter box. The mere thought made him want to sneeze.

So he reluctantly nudged her awake, fighting back the guilt when her jaws parted in a gaping yawn and she stretched so hard and luxuriously that her toes trembled. He gave her more water and lunch meat—this much lunch meat in a row was probably not healthy, but what was he supposed to do, let her starve?—and then scooped her up with his good hand to carry her outside.

His will almost broke when, instead of resisting him manhandling her, she curled up in his arms, purring loudly.

But he was determined. He gently set her down on the roof. “Thanks,” he said, and felt like he should clarify. “For staying with me last night.”

Then he remembered he was talking to a cat and rolled his eyes at himself and ducked back into his apartment, closing the door before she could follow him.

He wasn’t _thrilled_ about going to mass, but Maggie said Father Lantom was worried. Or, at least, getting worried. Now that Matt knew that, it would be inconsiderate to skip mass yet again. After all, he had no real reason to avoid Clinton Church. Definitely no reason to avoid Father Lantom. Besides, it was just mass. Mostly ritual. Sometimes Matt was able to emotionally connect, but it wasn’t hard to disengage either. Just mindlessly go through the motions. The nuns at St. Agnes had taught him how to do that all too well.

Back in his apartment, putting on a suit was as difficult as ever with a broken hand. Wasn’t enough to change his mind, though, although really that might have had more to do with stubbornness now than whatever he felt he owed Maggie or Father Lantom. He didn’t see the point in dwelling on that.

The walk to the church was nice, at least. Cold, but that was part of what made it nice. The heavy odors of Hell’s Kitchen that could get so overwhelming in warm weather were muted, and there weren’t as many people out so early on a chilly Sunday morning. Unfortunately, the stillness also gave Matt too much room to think.

Should he tell Father Lantom about the case? Probably. Father Lantom might know something. Or he could at least give Matt wisdom, like always.

Should he tell Father Lantom about…about what happened to _him?_

What would that even accomplish, at this point?

It didn’t matter, because that was never going to happen. He wasn’t even sure he’d be able to bring himself to talk to Father Lantom about _Samuel_. It was just…too close.

But as he stepped across the threshold to the church, he stopped under the weight of a sudden instruction: _Talk to him._

Matt breathed out slowly. After Father Lantom told him to listen more carefully for God’s voice, back when he was a kid, he’d tried. But he still rarely heard God’s voice. Maybe he wasn’t focusing hard enough, or maybe that was just the inevitable result of living in a world as loud as Matt’s.

Every once in a while, though. Every once in a while, there was a thought that didn’t seem to originate from Matt’s mind, but from somewhere far more intimate. It never said much. A verse of Scripture, sometimes, or a piece of a hymn…or sometimes, like today, a single command.

Unlike with Matt’s own self-generated ideas, it was impossible to truly rationalize rejection of these thoughts, these _whispers_. No matter how hard Matt tried, his soul simply knew better. Knew that this was not a voice to be ignored.

Gritting his teeth, Matt drummed his fingers on the handle of his cane, a little annoyed that God would finally choose to speak loud enough to be heard over everything else on _this_ issue. Ducking his head, he muttered, “You’re gonna have to give me more than that.” If God wanted Matt to talk to Father Lantom about evil priests, Matt needed a clearer sign.

Pretending he didn’t feel guilty for his defiance, he joined the crowd filing through the sanctuary. Dipped his hand in water and crossed himself. Genuflected at the altar. Found a seat towards the back. One good thing about not really having friends here was that no one tried to sit too close.

Well, until Maggie slid into the space next to him, except her weight was still at the edge of the seat, like she was prepared to leave at any moment. “Do you mind?” she whispered.

“Of course not,” he whispered back. Today, it was mostly true.

“Is your hand okay?”

“Claire looked at it,” he answered, confident she wouldn’t ask questions about how he’d gotten the injury without Claire there to point out that it hadn’t happened at night.

“Good,” Maggie said firmly. “I’m glad the two of you are reconciled.”

It was weird to have someone else caring about the state of his various relationships. He wasn’t sure how to respond, but he was saved from needing to as the congregation stood for prayer and to sing the first hymn. The song started off simple and unassuming, no harmony, only melody.

_Before the throne of God above_

_I have a strong and perfect plea_

_A great High Priest, whose name is love_

_Who ever lives and pleads for me_

Matt wondered if he could ever hear the word _priest_ again without thinking of evil.

_My name is graven on His hands_

_My name is written on His heart_

_I know that while in heaven He stands_

_No tongue can bid me thence depart_

_No tongue can bid me thence depart_

The intimacy of that verse was…too much. Too close. Matt’s name, carved in the holes of Jesus’ hands and written on His heart? It felt wrong. After all, Jesus was holy, and Matt was decidedly not.

_When Satan tempts me to despair_

_And tells me of the guilt within_

_Upward I look and see Him there_

_Who made an end of all my sin_

He wondered if Father Lantom agreed with those words. Wasn’t guilt the result of his sin? And his sin wasn’t _ended_.

The music swelled, grew more complex.

_Because a sinless Savior died_

_My sinful soul is counted free_

_For God, the just, is satisfied_

_To look on Him and pardon me_

_To look on Him and pardon me_

Matt’s soul didn’t feel free. It felt heavy. And how could _justice_ grant him pardon? _Mercy_ was the source of forgiveness. Justice demanded his condemnation.

Next to him, Maggie’s voice rose with the next verse. She clearly believed it, at least. Good for her.

_Behold Him there, the risen Lamb_

_My perfect spotless righteousness_

_The great unchangeable I Am_

_The King of glory and of grace_

Why was it that Matt longed for those words to be true, for his righteousness to be secured in God rather than in himself, and at the same time recoiled? Like a toddler trying and failing to tie his shoes, while his dad stood nearby, ready to help. _No, I can do it myself._

The music swelled, the congregants lifting their voices in hope. Just for a second, Matt let himself believe the word.

_One in Himself, I cannot die_

_My soul is purchased by His blood_

_My life is hid with Christ on high_

_With Christ, my Savior and my God_

_With Christ, my Savior and my God_

Maggie squeezed his hand. “A miracle, isn’t it?”

See, that was one of many reasons why sitting next to her was awkward. She might have bad days, but she didn’t seem to have _doubts_. And she seemed somehow capable of trusting God’s promises without fearing that they would be snatched away.

“Yeah,” he said anyway, making a show of feeling around for the seat behind him before sitting down. Maybe mass would be more meaningful for him if he didn’t have to pretend to be something other than he was, but there was no way around it unless he wanted to ask Father Lantom to hold a private ceremony just for him.

Father Lantom made his way to the front of the church. “Lord be with you,” he said.

“And with your spirit,” the congregation replied.

Father Lantom set his Bible on the lectern. “Our reading today,” he began, “comes from the second chapter of the book of Malachi.”

This was followed by a rustle of pages as the congregants opened their missals, but Matt simply folded his hands.

“Starting at the beginning.” Father Lantom cleared his throat and began to read. “These are the words of God: ‘And now, you priests, this warning is for you.’”

Matt sat up straighter. Was this really the scheduled reading for today? Really?

Father Lantom read on: “‘If you do not listen, and if you do not resolve to honor My name,’ says the Lord Almighty, ‘I will send a curse on you, and I will curse your blessings. Yes, I have already cursed them, because you have not resolved to honor Me. Because of you I will rebuke your descendants; I will smear on your faces the dung from your festival sacrifices, and you will be carried off with it.’”

The congregation stirred; some old ladies in the back muttered their offense at their priest talking about dung in a sermon.

Father Lantom was unperturbed. “‘And you will know that I have sent you this warning so that My covenant with Levi may continue,’ says the Lord Almighty,” he read.

Evil priests. All right. Well, Matt _had_ demanded a sign. He sunk a little lower in his seat, sending up a silent, begrudging prayer: _Okay, God. I hear You._

“‘My covenant was with him,’” Father Lantom continued, “‘a covenant of life and peace, and I gave them to him; this called for reverence and he revered Me and stood in awe of My name. True instruction was in his mouth and nothing false was found on his lips. He walked with Me in peace and uprightness, and turned many from sin.’” He softened his voice. “‘For the lips of a priest ought to preserve knowledge, because he is the messenger of the Lord Almighty and people seek instruction from his mouth.’” Then he raised his voice until it rang through the sanctuary. “‘But _you_ have turned from the way and by your teaching have caused many to stumble; you have violated the covenant with Levi,’ says the Lord Almighty. ‘So I have caused you to be despised and humiliated before all the people, because you have not followed My ways but have shown partiality in matters of the law.’”

When Father Lantom finished, the church was completely silent. Whatever the congregation had been expecting, it definitely wasn’t that.

Father Lantom lifted his head. “Grim words from Scripture,” he said. “A grim warning. Now, you might be thinking this warning doesn’t apply to you. You might be thinking this is a passage I ought to only apply to myself. But as you can read in First Peter chapter two—”

This was punctuated by pages turning.

“—you’ll see that, in the New Testament, the title of priest is extended. In addressing the church—not the leaders, not the pastors, but each member of the church—Saint Peter said, ‘You also, like living stones, are being built into a spiritual house to be a holy priesthood.’ And elsewhere in the same chapter he said, ‘But you are a chosen people, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, God’s special possession, that you may declare the praises of Him who called you out of darkness into His wonderful light.’ In other words, we are all priests.”

He paused, letting this sink in. “And yet there are many in this world who bear the Lord’s name in vain. Some, maybe even in this congregation here, who deserve the warnings from the book of Malachi. We are all called to be messengers of God. Priests. Ambassadors. We are to let our light shine in a dark world full of hate and discord. Instead, we are complacent at best, and evil at worst. We let opportunities to spread love pass us by, and we attack the very people we are called to love. Do you think God doesn’t know? Do you think God doesn’t see?”

Father Lantom shifted on his feet, squaring his shoulders as if under a weight. “It’s a heavy calling, to be a priest. Some days, I admit it feels too heavy. But we are not left here to bear it alone. I have one more passage for us today, so turn with me to Hebrews chapter four.”

More rustling of pages.

“Therefore,” Father Lantom read, “since we have a great High Priest who has ascended into heaven, Jesus the Son of God, let us hold firmly to the faith we profess. For we do not have a High Priest who is unable to empathize with our weakness, but we have one who has been tempted in every way, just as we are—yet He did not sin. Let us then approach God’s throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need.”

Matt closed his eyes, letting the words wash over him.

Father Lantom’s voice was almost a whisper, like he was struck anew by the very words he was preaching. “What a precious privilege is ours, and yet how often we prefer to soldier on alone, in our own wisdom and our own strength. Our High Priest goes before us, and has granted us access to the Father Himself, and yet we try to fight the darkness of this world—and even the darkness in our own hearts—by ourselves. Brothers and sisters, listen to me: alone, _you will be crushed_.”

Maggie set her hand over both of Matt’s. With great effort, he did not pull away.

“But thank God, we’re not alone.” Father Lantom closed his Bible. “We have one another, and we have our High Priest. Remember that, as we move forward into this coming week. Let us pray.”

Matt bowed his head, but his mind was far from Father Lantom’s prayer as he was caught between two repeating thoughts: _Forgive me_ , and, _But how could You let him do that?_

When the service was finally over, the congregants rose. Matt hovered in the aisle, aware of Maggie watching him.

“Do you have lunch plans?” she asked, a hint of hope in her voice.

Matt hated to disappoint, but he had to. “Actually, I, uh…I need to talk to Father Lantom.”

To his surprise, she _didn’t_ seem disappointed. “Well, then.” She touched his arm. “I hope it’s a good conversation.”

He adjusted his glasses. “Yeah, so do I.”

She slipped away, off to attend to something church-related or maybe to get lunch by herself. Matt remained in his seat, listening as people filed past, some commenting on the sermon but most more interested in deciding where to go to get food.

Eventually, Father Lantom finished his conversations with a few others who’d lingered to talk with him, and made his way down the isle towards Matt. He sat as he often did in the row directly in front of Matt’s, turning and resting his arm over the back so they were face-to-face.

“It’s good to see you here again, Matthew.”

Matt shifted in his seat. “I’m sorry it’s been so long.”

“I’m sure you’ve been busy.”

“Yeah, you could say that.”

“What did you think of the sermon?”

Matt exhaled slowly. “It was on point.”

“On point?”

Matt grimaced. “Our new case is about sexual abuse. By a priest.”

Father Lantom bowed his head.

“Father Geary. St. Matthew’s.” Matt did not ask if Father Lantom ever heard anything about him. He wouldn’t be able to handle it if Father Lantom said yes, and he wouldn’t be able to handle it if Father Lantom lied.

But Father Lantom answered anyway. “I’ve never met the man. And I’ve never heard any allegations against anyone at St. Matthew’s. I don’t doubt you, I just haven’t heard of it.”

His heart beat steadily, leaving Matt ashamed of his relief.

“So, then.” Father Lantom folded his arms, leaning against the side of the pew. “How are you holding up with all this?”

Matt wet his lips. “I don’t know. I guess I wasn’t really…ready, when we took the case.”

Father Lantom’s head tilted. “Ready?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ve counseled some people who were victims of that kind of abuse,” Father Lantom said, while Matt inwardly curled his lip at the word _victim_. “Frankly, I’m always relieved they stay with the Church. Most don’t. It’s a terrible situation.”

“How do you help them?”

Father Lantom thought about it for a moment. “It depends on the person, on what they need. Mostly, I try to help them see that God is separate from what happened to them. If they leave their church, that’s one thing. If they leave God, that’s…something else.”

Matt frowned. “You don’t try to defend the Church?”

Father Lantom’s voice took on an oddly amused tone. “A priest doesn’t represent churches, Matthew. A priest represents God.”

“God is the head of the Church,” Matt argued.

“God is the head of _the_ Church, the worldwide Church, yes. But any given local church could have any number of flaws. Some insignificant, some devastating. If we can’t distinguish between churches where God is present and churches where He is not—”

“We’re not supposed to judge people.”

“‘For what have I to do with judging outsiders?’” Father Lantom quoted in response. “‘Is it not those inside the church whom you are to judge?’ First Corinthians chapter five, I think. Or maybe Second Corinthians, I can never keep those two straight. The point is, we are indeed called to judge those who claim to represent God.” He leaned closer. “The Apostle Paul warns us to watch out for evil men attempting to harm the church, both wolves from without _and_ perverse men from within.”

“Even…even priests?” Matt asked tentatively. Wasn’t no one supposed to question priests?

“Matthew, if you ever find that I’ve done anything in defiance of Scripture—whether it’s an act or just teaching false doctrine—I _want_ you to challenge me. I _want_ you to call me to account.”

Matt frowned. That was certainly not like anything Father Sheridan ever said.

Father Lantom sighed. “The way corruption seeps into the church is not something I’ll ever—Matthew?”

Matt had flinched at a yelp across the street. It was just teenagers messing around, but the sudden sound was still startling. He deliberately drew his attention back to the kitchen. “Sorry. Thought I heard something.”

Stick would be beyond irritated with him by now. So many false alarms. What good was a warrior who couldn’t tell the difference between normal, everyday life and a threat?

He refocused, gritting his teeth. “If it’s so _corrupt_ , why do you stay?”

Father Lantom took his time before answering with a question of his own. “Why do you stay with the legal system? It’s also broken.”

That was different. “The legal system doesn’t claim to speak for God.”

“True.” For a moment, Father Lantom didn’t say anything else. Then, unassumingly: “Are you thinking of the leaving the church?”

“No,” Matt said quickly. “No. I just want to know how you can reconcile _this_ —” He gestured at the church around them, “—with what you know is happening.”

To his credit, Father Lantom took his time coming up with an answer. “I think,” he said at last, “that I have to remember that my faith is in God, not in people. If I abandoned God every time people betrayed me—”

“But we’re not just talking about a handful of priests,” Matt argued. “We’re talking about a systematic cover-up. We’re talking about organized crime shrouded in religion. How do you—how do you _make sense_ of that?”

“I don’t,” Father Lantom said. “But—”

Matt clenched his jaw. “Then why—”

“Let me finish,” Father Lantom interrupted.

Matt fell silent.

“The world is broken by sin, Matthew. Naturally places of power, of influence, attract those who want to misuse it for their own gain. It’s true of politics everywhere, including in the church. Which is why Scripture commands us to hold each other accountable. I think where we have failed as a church is by refusing to judge ourselves, and by becoming so concerned with our reputation that we can’t admit when something is wrong. But by doing so, we have damaged not only our reputation, but some of the precious children in our care.”

“But—”

“But,” Father Lantom said firmly, and waited until Matt closed his mouth again. “But I can’t change what happens in Vatican City, or elsewhere around the world, or even down the street. I’m called to be here.” He lifted his head as if staring up at the ceiling of Clinton Church. “Here, all I can do is shepherd the flock entrusted to me as best I can, while clinging to the hope that Christ is their true shepherd.”

“What makes you say you _can’t_ change how the rest of the church is run? Why can’t you fight the system?”

“What does fighting the system look like?” His voice sounded tired now. Still adamant, but tired. “What would you have me do? Are you asking me to abandon the people here and go to Rome and petition the Pope to take more action?”

Matt squeezed his cane. “So you’re giving up.”

Father Lantom laughed dryly. “Giving up, Matthew, would be turning my back on Clinton Church and going to live as a hermit where I don’t have to deal with anyone’s sins but my own. Some days, I admit the idea has its appeal. But I won’t abandon this church here to the wolves.”

Matt glared blindly at the pew in front of him. “People are hurting.”

“I’ll ask you again: what would you have me do?”

“You’re the one who’s supposed to have the answers.”

“I’ve given you my answer,” Father Lantom pointed out. “I’m not surprised you don’t like it. You have never been content to allow evil to exist anywhere around you. But…” He hesitated.

“But what,” Matt asked tersely.

“But…although I do believe God has done miraculous things through you, and helped many people…I also think that you have a tendency to take on too much. Tell me, when was the last time that you knew of an evil, and let someone else deal with it?”

“Doing nothing to stop evil is evil itself.”

“Is that _always_ true, though? Or is it true that sometimes you can only do what you are called to do, and stretching yourself to do more will only crush your spirit?”

Matt inhaled, and it was like all he could taste was ash and blood, like his spirit was once again fading away in the church basement, angry at the world and at God and especially at himself.

Matt lowered his head. “Sorry.”

“What on earth are you apologizing for?”

He fidgeted. “I think I’m just…I’m frustrated with myself, Father. Because I’m not doing enough.”

Father Lantom sighed. “Guilt may be a call to action, but the mere fact that evil continues to exist does not mean that _you_ are not doing enough.”

“I can’t afford to be complacent.”

“I doubt anyone would ever accuse you of that.”

“But…” Matt trailed off, not bothering to hide his frustration.

“Listen, Matthew, maybe God _is_ calling you to do more to fight this specific evil. Maybe He’s calling you to do more in addition to what you already do, or maybe He’s calling you to do more instead of what you already do. I don’t know. Neither do you, apparently. So, if I may ask…have you tried talking with _Him_ about it?”

Matt averted his eyes. “I’m talking to you,” he mumbled.

“I’m not God. He promises to direct us, and that’s one reason we pray. For direction.”

“Can’t God give me direction in whatever way He wants? Doesn’t have to be through prayer.”

Now, _now_ , of all the times in this conversation, Father Lantom’s heart started beating faster in concern. “You told me when you were younger that you pray all the time. Not so much anymore, I take it?”

Matt’s stomach twisted. He still remembered that conversation. It took place only a month, give or take, before he met Father Sheridan. Matt kept his eyes averted, trying not to give anything away. “Not so much anymore, no.”

“And why’s that?”

“It’s…complicated.”

“I’ve got plenty of time.”

“I’m sure you have more important things to do, actually.”

Father Lantom edged a little bit closer, stopping when Matt edged a little bit away. “Matthew, your fellowship with God is the most important thing I can think of right now. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”

_God must flinch when He sees you._

Matt swallowed. “Father, I…can we not? Go there? Right now?”

Father Lantom’s silence was disappointed. Matt resisted the temptation to squirm. Finally, Lantom simply said, “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

Matt turned his face away. “I’m sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hebrews 4:14-16 ~ "Since then we have a great high priest who has passed through the heavens, Jesus, the Son of God, let us hold fast our confession. For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sin. Let us then with confidence draw near to the throne of grace, that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need."


	9. 1 Peter 4:8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, your comments on the last chapter actually blew me away. Thank you so much. I'll respond to them in detail soon, but first I wanted to post this next chapter!

Over the next few days at the office, Matt found it impossible to relax. Between the fiasco when Claire showed up to deal with his broken hand and Foggy witnessing the nightmare, Matt kept waiting for something else to go wrong. Or for Foggy and Karen to put together the pieces, realize how perfectly the timeline of the McCarty case synced up with Matt being…well, _more_ of a disaster than usual.

Well, if they had put anything together already, they weren’t showing it. At all. They weren’t that good at keeping secrets, were they? Foggy definitely wasn’t. They seemed concerned, but also confused.

Then again, it made sense. The truth wasn’t an assumption anyone wanted to make. Especially not about the people they cared about.

But for Matt, it was no longer a truth he was able to entirely bury even for himself. Foggy and Karen, both fueled by righteous indignation, wouldn’t stop talking about this case. And if it wasn’t them, it was Hannah coming by to talk about how the case was progressing. Or, more accurately, how it wasn’t. Or, if it was, Brett wasn’t telling her about it.

Which, fine. That was his prerogative, and Matt was well aware of how clients could interfere with strategy in the legal context; he assumed Brett had a list of similar experiences of citizens trying to insert themselves into investigations.

But maybe Brett could let Matt in on the status of the case. Not so Matt could turn around and tell Hannah, but just so Matt could…know.

Of course, Matt wasn’t stupid. Knowing what the investigation had turned up so far wouldn’t actually help him accurately predict how close the case was to being over—in other words, how close Matt was to getting his life back. But he needed to know _something_ , to have some sense that things were moving forward.

That was how he found himself tapping his way into the precinct, trying not to wrinkle his nose at the barrage of smells. Dirt, sweat, blood, alcohol, metal, ink, paper, gun smoke. And the noise: constant clatter, voices everywhere, keys clacking, printers printing, several people shouting. He hated it here.

Not that anyone would know it by looking at him. Plastering on a pleasant smile, he gave his name to the desk sergeant and asked if Brett Mahoney was available. The desk sergeant said he’d let him know, so Matt took a seat and fiddled with the strap of his cane as he waited.

After about ten minutes, he recognized Brett’s footsteps approaching, quick and business like. “Murdock,” he greeted him. “What’s going on?”

Matt stood. “Can we talk privately? Do you have time?”

Brett made a show of glancing around, not that he’d know Matt could tell. “Well, you haven’t brought Foggy along, so sure. Follow me.”

He led Matt back behind the front desk and through a maze of cubicles and narrow hallways until they reached a room at the back. “You have an office?” Matt asked.

“Don’t sound so surprised, I earned this. You can sit if you want.” Brett flopped back down in his chair, reaching across the desk and starting to pull some documents closer before stopping, apparently remembering that Matt couldn’t see them anyway. He hurried to smooth down his tie, as if that had been the reason for his gesture, before apparently remembering that Matt couldn’t see his movement either.

Lips quirking in amusement, Matt sat. “Thanks for making time. This’ll be quick, I hope. I just wanted to ask if you’ve made any progress on the McCarty case.”

There was a frown in Brett’s voice. “Does Hannah not think she can ask me herself? She’s gotta send lawyers hounding me?”

“Not hounding you,” Matt said. “And no, Hannah didn’t send me. I just…was hoping for an update.”

Brett rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “I get it. It’s hard not to be invested in this case. But you know I can’t tell you anything.”

“I’m not asking for specifics. I just…I need to know if there’s _something_ that’s turned up.” Something, anything.

“Well, I’ve spoken to some other families at the church, trying to see if there’s other victims—”

“What?” Matt interrupted, dismayed (and internally gritting his teeth against the word _victim_ ). “Brett, you can’t spread this around the church. If the priest finds out Hannah went to the police—”

“I didn’t tell them where my suspicions came from.”

“You think that _matters?_ ” Hannah said she’d stopped taking Samuel to church once Samuel admitted what happened with the priest. Wouldn’t take a genius to figure out she was the one who’d gone to police. “He’s gonna come after her.”

“How?” Brett asked, and there was something in his voice that Matt couldn’t identify.

Matt slumped back in his seat. “I don’t…I don’t know.”

“I’ve talked to both Samuel and Hannah now. Neither of them said anything about physical threats.”

Matt snorted in disgust. Just because Samuel hadn’t said it didn’t mean it hadn’t happened. Besides, the priest would want as many things as possible to hold over Samuel’s head. Faith wasn’t enough. Shame wasn’t enough. Threats to family, though…Matt knew, just _knew_ Father Sheridan would’ve gone there with Matt if Matt had had any family left.

Matt sat there in tense silence for about a full minute before he realized Brett was just standing there, watching him, not saying anything. Matt looked up sharply. “Sorry.” He ran his hand through his hair. “You were saying…?”

For about thirty more seconds, Brett still didn’t do anything. “I talked to other families,” he finally went on. “Especially one with kids Samuel’s age. But none of them will give me anything.”

“Well, they wouldn’t,” Matt said darkly.

“Why do you say that?” There was a new significance to Brett’s tone again, like he thought he knew where Matt was going with this.

But Matt wasn’t trying to say anything particularly insightful. “They don’t know you, and you’re asking about something…very personal.”

“Huh,” Brett muttered.

“What?”

“Just…some of how they reacted to me, it was like they were suspicious before I even started asking about the priest.”

Matt raised his eyebrows. “Well, cops aren’t exactly the most respected profession these days.”

“I feel like it was more than that, though.”

“Why?”

Brett sighed. “I don’t know.”

“Look, Brett, you’re a friendly guy. Approachable. But that may not be enough to make up for your affiliation with the NYPD.”

Brett’s head cocked. “The NYPD specifically, or cops in general?”

“…Cops in general,” Matt said, confused. Why was he so stuck on this? People’s wariness seemed straightforward enough to Matt.

Brett drummed his fingers on the desk. His breathing kept changing like he wanted to say something, but couldn’t commit to it. Matt waited patiently until finally Brett said, “When you and Foggy took Fisk down, you also brought down a lotta corrupt cops.”

“And FBI agents,” Matt said. “Technically.”

“D’you think…d’you think we missed some? In the sweeps?”

Matt blinked. “I don’t know.” He hadn’t heard anything suggesting that, but then, he’d been listening more for other kinds of crime recently. “Why?”

Brett was still drumming his fingers. He shifted in his seat. “I just…” he began at last. “I just wonder what it would take for someone like Geary to get a few cops to look the other way.”

Matt felt his eyes widen. “What makes you think there are cops who even know what’s happening?”

“Some of them go to Geary’s church. Not that they’re what I’d ever call devout, but…”

“That doesn’t mean they know what’s going on,” Matt pointed out.

“No, and I don’t have any real evidence yet,” Brett admitted. “It’s just a hunch. But part of being a good cop is knowing when to trust your hunches.”

Matt wasn’t so sure. Corruption in law enforcement wasn’t exactly news to him, but still. “Ignoring sexual abuse, though. That’s a whole other level.”

“It’s no different than Hoffman and Blake enabling the Ranskahov brothers and their sex trafficking,” Brett retorted.

“They were being paid off by Fisk. What could a local priest like Geary—” He cut himself off, stomach twisting. He knew from his nights on the street that it wasn’t uncommon for sex traffickers to buy favors, from law enforcement, from politicians, from _anyone,_ not just by offering money, but by offering _experiences_.

“Exactly,” Brett said darkly.

“You really think that’s what’s happening?”

“Like I said, it’s just a hunch. But I’ve looked into other cases like this, with priests. In small towns, where the priest has connections to local police…the priest just needs one or two sick bastards on his side to keep suspicion away and keep his victims’ mouths shut. It’s happened before, is all I’m saying.”

Matt felt the devil stirring deep within him, and tried to at least keep the devil off his face.

Brett leaned closer, lowered his voice. “Listen, I couldn’t help wondering…however it is you and Foggy sniffed out those dishonest cops working for Fisk, I thought maybe you could try tapping that resource again.”

“Well, we don’t have any particular resources, but I can promise I’ll be listening.”

“Thanks,” Brett said, although he didn’t exactly sound enthused. He seemed to debate with himself over something, then lowered his voice even more. “D’you think…I mean, I know you and Foggy have some kind of connection to, y’know, Daredevil…”

Matt drew back. “We don’t. That’s just conjecture.”

“C’mon, Murdock, don’t try that with me. You know Foggy came to me before Fisk was arrested the second time? He tried to get me to up security at the hotel—”

_What?_

“—gave me this weird story about being worried about Daredevil crossing some sorta line, being too angry to think. I mean, Foggy didn’t say the name, but I know it was Daredevil.”

Foggy did _what?_

“Slap on top of that the fact that you two are always repping whatever witnesses Daredevil digs up…”

Matt wasn’t really listening, too torn between being furious with Foggy for interfering like that and so unspeakably grateful that Foggy would care enough about Matt’s soul and his beliefs, beliefs that Foggy didn’t even share, to try.

“So I was just thinking, maybe you could get him to keep an eye out.”

Matt snapped back to the conversation. “You want me,” he clarified slowly, “to contact a vigilante and ask him to look out for corrupt cops.”

Brett seemed to realize the absurdity of the idea. “I didn’t say that.”

“But that’s what you’re asking.”

“Look, I just—I need more than a hunch. I need evidence. Or at least a place to start looking. If Daredevil can get me some names—”

“Start with the cops with a connection to St. Matthew’s.”

“I did,” Brett said testily. “There’s twenty-eight of them. Not exactly narrowed down.”

Matt sighed. “Fine, all right. I’ll…see if I can get ahold of him.” It wasn’t like he wouldn’t be doing precisely this regardless, but he couldn’t afford to look too eager. Or confident in his ability to contact the vigilante.

“Thank you.” Brett finally relaxed…slightly. “And in the meantime, I’ll keep talking to the families, see what I can turn up.”

“Wait—Brett?”

“Yeah?”

“Just…” Matt clenched his fist under the table where Brett couldn’t see. “If you’re gonna talk to families, make sure you’re being smart. Don’t just talk to anyone. Unless you’re ready for Geary to know you’re looking into him.”

“I’ve been focusing on families that seem more vulnerable. Poor, immigrants, single mothers.”

“You could, uh…” Matt cleared his throat. “You could try talking to the nuns, too. Sunday school teachers. They’ll know which kids are more, uh…isolated. Even if they come from a large family.”

“Right,” Brett said. “Good point.”

“And when you talk to these families…and if you talk to Samuel again…”

“Yeah?”

Matt debated actually saying this. But it was important. He took a breath, then said in a rush: “Don’t use the word victim.”

“What, like at all?”

“At all.” Matt stopped, hoping he could leave it at that, but Brett didn’t seem convinced. Reluctantly, Matt kept going. “You have to remember, the survivors might not even identify as victims. Especially if they’re kids, and especially if you’re the first person they’re talking to about…” He gestured vaguely. “All of this. And if that’s the case, they might not even know what happened to them, or how to explain it.”

“I know our sex ed is trash,” Brett said slowly, “but it can’t be that bad. And kids still have access to the internet.”

Matt pressed his lips together. “Yes, but think about the demographics you’re working with now. These are religious families. Generally, these parents would rather shelter their kids from any and all topics related to sex. Even if the kids do learn something in school, they probably aren’t getting any help with piecing it together at home. Add to that whatever Geary is telling them to confuse them, and…” He shrugged.

“Damn.” Brett cleared his throat. “Okay, that makes sense.”

“Besides,” Matt added more quietly. “Victim is a loaded word.”

“It’s the legally correct word.”

“Technically, _alleged_ victim is what’s legally correct, but somehow I doubt you’re calling anyone that to their face.”

“Fair point,” Brett conceded. “I run into that kind of thing with domestic violence cases anyway. I know seeing yourself as a victim can be hard.”

Matt scoffed under his breath. No, Brett didn’t _know_. He might be able to _guess_ , but he didn’t _know_.

“Any other tips?” Brett asked.

Plenty. They’d been building up in the back of Matt’s mind ever since Brett first confronted him. Matt just wasn’t sure how much he could say without raising new questions. But that was disgustingly selfish. Still, it was why Matt hadn’t been able to bring himself to actually reach out to Brett until he had some other reason for them to talk.

Matt tried to sound neutral. Yes, this was a serious topic, but no, it wasn’t personal. “Be careful how you ask if they’ve told anyone.”

“But I have to know if there are other witnesses.”

“No, I know. I just mean…it can sound…” Matt searched for the right word. “Accusative,” he came up with at last. “ _If_ they realize that the abuse is actually abuse, they might already be frustrated with themselves for not getting help sooner. And if, um…if they think about whether Geary is doing this to other people, they might…” Matt felt the tension building deep in his chest and focused on just getting through this conversation, “…feel like it’s their fault. If you come at them asking who they’ve told, they might take it as you confirming that they _should have_ told someone, even if they didn’t, which means…”

Guilt. More guilt.

Brett was pulling out his notepad again (and Matt tried not to care). “So how do I figure out if anyone else knows about this?”

Matt tried to think about it without really thinking about it, tried to think about what it would take to get…not _him_ , but _someone_ to talk about it. “They might tell you on their own, if you let them talk. You can also ask in a way that’s less about what they did or didn’t do, and more about the relationships in their life. I mean, you can ask if there’s anyone they trust enough to talk to about this with. That kind of thing.”

Brett wrote that down. “Good idea.”

“And, Brett, listen, one last thing…” Matt swallowed. “Don’t act shocked.”

“What?”

“No matter what they tell you, no matter how bad it is, even if it _is_ shocking…don’t act shocked.”

~

When Foggy called that night to ask Matt to come out for drinks, Matt couldn’t say no. He wanted to let the noises of Josie’s wash over him, sit there and drink and talk and laugh with Foggy and Karen like nothing was wrong. He wanted to stop thinking, just for a bit.

And Josie’s was perfect for that. It was loud enough to almost drown out the rest of the city, especially after he’d had a few drinks. And it was warm, and smelled bad in a familiar way, and he almost didn’t have to pretend to be blind because he and Foggy had been coming here long enough to know the place inside and out. He let his tie hang loose around his neck.

To be clear, he wasn’t particularly trying to get drunk. But they’d been at Josie’s for over two hours, working steadily through various drinks the whole time, and Matt kind of forgot to have dinner beforehand, which meant by now he’d reached that pleasantly buzzed point. The world was sort of soft and smooth, and he felt slightly removed from the immediacy of the moment. It was nice, and it got even better when Karen leaned her head against his shoulder, absently running her finger against the grain of the texture of his sleeve. He smelled her apple shampoo.

Fortunately, Foggy and Karen didn’t seem too far behind. Although they were expressive enough to seem even more drunk.

Now, for instance. Foggy was waving his hands wildly, like that would somehow increase the validity of the absurd points he was making as he argued that a platypus should not be considered a mammal. “It lays _eggs_ ,” Foggy proclaimed, loud enough to cause several people around them to glance in their direction.

“I guess laying eggs isn’t dispos’tive,” Matt said, a bit slurred, amused as to why this was a debate Foggy thought they, as lawyers, were qualified to have.

“They’re _amphibians_.”

“They feed their young with milk,” Matt reminded him.

Foggy huffed. “Since when is that the most important factor?”

Karen lifted her head off Matt’s shoulder to add her expertise. “Since that’s the definition of mammal.”

Foggy pulled back. “It is?”

“Yep.” Karen popped the _p_.

“I knew that,” Foggy muttered to himself. “I definitely knew that.” Then he raised his voice. “Well, it’s an arbitrary classification! I’m googling it.”

“You do that,” Karen said dryly.

A few seconds later: “There are _more_ mammals that lay eggs.” Foggy sounded shocked, and slightly betrayed by the universe.

Matt nodded. “Told you laying eggs isn’t…” He forgot the word, waving his hand around like some terrible game of charades.

“Ridiculous,” Foggy declared. “Science is ridiculous. It makes no sense.”

Karen shorted loudly.

There was a scowl in Foggy’s voice. “Hey, what?”

She pushed her hair out of her face. “I’m sorry, are you saying law _does_ make sense?”

Foggy jabbed a finger at her. “Whose side are you on?”

“The side of the truth,” she said loftily, sliding out of her chair. “I’m getting more drinks.”

Foggy instantly forgave her. “You’re a hero, K!”

“Don’t call me K,” she tossed over her shoulder as she made her way across the room. Matt listened as she lithely slipped between other patrons, tracking her until she emerged unruffled at the bar, not so much as a hair out of place. How was she always so _graceful?_

“Buddy!” Foggy snapped a finger in his face. “I’ve been talking to you.”

Matt jerked back. “What?”

“What were you so zeroed in on?” Foggy lowered his voice dramatically. “Is there a _crime?_ ”

Matt wasn’t about to admit he’d been zeroed in on Karen. “No. Nothing. There’s nothing.”

Foggy cracked up. “You’re the worst liar, Matt. The _worst_. I dunno how you kept your secret so long.” Reaching across the table, he tugged on Matt’s sleeve. “Hey. You’re not going, y’know, _out_ tonight, are you?”

Why was that even a question? “’Course I am, Fogs.”

“Dude, you’re _sloshed_.”

“I am not _sloshed_. I’m…I’m…” Matt spun his hand through the air, searching for the word. “Tipsy.”

“You are way past tipsy, my friend.”

For a split second, Matt considered doing a backflip, just to prove he could. Like, could a sloshed person do _that?_ But then he remembered they were in a bar in public, and so doing a backflip would probably actually prove Foggy’s point.

“I’ll be careful,” Matt promised instead.

Foggy sighed gustily. “You’re never careful.”

“I’m sometimes careful.”

“Name one time,” Foggy fired back.

Matt stuck his tongue out in rebuttal.

“Guys, guys!” Karen was back, dropping drinks on their table and sliding into place beside Matt again. “What are you fighting about? Not mammals, still?”

“Nothing,” Matt said mutinously, sure Karen would pick Foggy’s side.

Foggy was apparently equally sure, because he pointed grandly at Matt. “About whether _he_ should go out tonight. Y’know, I mean, _out_.”

“Why shouldn’t he? Crime doesn’t stop,” Karen informed them both, sipping from her glass with the airs of a queen.

Matt was _delighted_.

Foggy was not. “Your awful advice is gonna get him killed, and then how’ll you feel?”

“Matt’ll be careful,” Karen argued. “Right? You can be careful, Matt, right?”

Matt nodded earnestly. “Very careful.”

“Oh, great.” Foggy dropped his head into his hands. “He’s giving us his puppy dog eyes now. Karen, look what you did.”

Matt was indignant. “I do not have puppy dog eyes.”

“You do, you _so_ do.”

“Lemme look.” Karen leaned closer. He smelled the whisky on her breath. She lifted his glasses away, without asking, which was normally something he’d be upset about, but it was Karen, and he found that he didn’t really care.

He still squeezed his eyes shut, though. See if he had puppy dog eyes now.

“ _Matt_.” Karen tugged on his arm. “Lemme _look_.”

He shook his head, keeping his eyes closed tight.

Foggy lifted his head. “If you’re not letting her look, it’s ’cause you know I’m right.”

Matt felt thoroughly tricked. Foggy had orchestrated the perfect lose-lose situation. There was only one way out. He opened his eyes, but made sure to glare at Karen.

She burst out laughing. “Angry puppy dog eyes!”

“ _Karen_.”

“Yes!” Foggy crowed, reaching across the table for a loud and too-enthusiastic high five.

Matt had lost. However, Foggy seemed completely distracted from the original argument, so in that sense, Matt had actually won. Ha.

They stayed shooting the breeze for at least another hour, maybe two. Matt wasn’t really keeping track. Foggy was the first to leave, saying he wanted to get home early enough to spend time with Marci. The atmosphere changed subtly now that it was just Matt and Karen. Or maybe not so subtly. Or maybe it was all in Matt’s head.

She didn’t seem flustered, anyway. She was telling a story about some trouble she and her brother had gotten into at a grocery store. It was rare that she talked about her brother like this, and Matt assumed the alcohol was helping.

“So me and Kevin, we’re squeezing these mangos, trying to find the ripest ones,” she went on, already cracking herself up with her own story “and we’re not even taking it seriously, just pretending to be grownups and trying not to laugh, and there’s this old woman staring at us judgily—”

“Judgily?” Matt queried.

“ _Judgily_ ,” she repeated emphatically, trying (and failing) to stifle her giggles. “But we’re ignoring her, because, like, everyone squeezes melons—”

“We’re talking about melons?”

“ _Mangos_ ,” she corrected herself. “I meant mangos. Everyone squeezes mangos, it’s what you do when you’re buying them. But all of a sudden—” She was struggling to talk through her laughter. “Kevin squeezes to hard and his thumb breaks the skin and he just gets _splattered_ with all this mango juice—”

Matt grinned at the mental image.

“It’s in his _hair_ , Matt, I swear, and all over the floor. And this woman _freaks out_ , she’s so mad. She thinks we did it on purpose or something, I don’t know, and of course she’s saying we have to buy it, but Matt, _Matt_ —” She puts her hand on his arm, still giggling, and whispered, “ _We didn’t have any money._ ”

Matt was totally caught up in the story by now. “What did you do? Don’t tell me you shoplifted a mango.”

She drew herself up. “Of course not! We put it in a plastic bag like we were gonna buy it, and I dragged Kevin down to the cereal aisle where no one was. He wanted to just shove it behind some boxes of Cheerios, but I made him eat the mango instead.”

“ _Why?_ ”

“Because it was _funny_. His face, Matt, his _face_.”

“I think that’s still technically shoplifting,” he pointed out dutifully, but she kept laughing anyway.

It was contagious. Matt laughed along with her, and was startled to realize it was the first time he’d laughed in…he didn’t even know how long. Should he thank her? Or would that sound weird? It was too late; she’d already launched into another story. He found himself with his elbow propped on the table, chin resting in his hand, just listening with a smile on his face that seemed like it would stick around as long as she was there.

She was so smart, and so kind, and so beautiful.

Should he ask her out again?

The thought came out of nowhere, too sudden and too _complicated_. He shouldn’t. It almost felt wrong. After all, she was the one who’d rejected him. What if asking her out again was ignoring her boundaries?

Or maybe it would be wrong just because he was such an unmitigated disaster. She deserved so much better, and meanwhile her friendship was more than he had any right to ask for. Wanting more was selfish.

But she still seemed drawn to him, for reasons he couldn’t fathom. And he was certainly drawn to her, like a moth to dancing candlelight.

He interrupted her story, something about the old family dog. “Karen?” he asked impulsively, breathlessly.

She made an effort to stop giggling. “Yeah?”

“Can I—can I take you to dinner?”

She suddenly went completely still, except for her racing heartbeat.

“I mean—you don’t have to, obviously, I just thought—if you wanted—”

She interrupted him. “In what context?”

Always the reporter. He maybe should have planned this better. “As a…as a date.”

“Mmm,” she said approvingly, leaning in again. “Thank you for clarifying.” She kissed him, light as butterfly wings, and pulled back before he could deepen it. “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” he said immediately.

Silence hung between them, like neither of them knew what to do anymore. Going back to telling goofy stories didn’t seem to fit.

Finally, Karen stifled a yawn. “In that case, goodnight, Mr. Murdock.”

He brushed his hand against her wrist. “Goodnight, Miss Page.”

~

_Thank you, Father_ , Matt said as they finished their very last session on the last day of camp. Tomorrow morning, he’d get to go home, and he’d already decided he was never coming back, even though these trips were supposed to be annual. He’d say he was sick, he’d say he was hurt. He could even actually hurt himself, although he’d rather try lying first.

 _Thank you, Father._ He didn’t mean the words he was saying. He wished he did, since it felt wrong _not_ to be grateful, but he couldn’t bring himself to believe what he was saying even back then.

Wiry fingers caught his arm before he could leave. _One last thing, Matty._

_Yes?_

_I shouldn’t have to tell you this, but what you’ve done needs to stay between us._

Matt’s body went cold. He hadn’t even been planning on telling anyone, but now knowing he _couldn’t_ somehow felt like…losing a means of escape.

 _Why not?_ he’d asked.

_The seal of confession goes both ways, Matty. If you need to talk about this, you can talk to me. If you talk to anyone else, the seal is broken and all your forgiveness is undone._

That didn’t sound right. That didn’t match what he knew of either confession or forgiveness. And if the priest were only a nun teaching him Sunday school, he would’ve questioned it. Challenged it.

But Father Sheridan wasn’t a nun. He was a priest. He spoke for God. And Matt was so desperate for forgiveness and so afraid of Hell that the risk of skepticism was far, far too high.

He knew better now. Could see the lie for what it was. Father Sheridan had probed for other weaknesses, of course, and Matt had no doubt that he would’ve threatened Matt with the people Matt cared about if he could’ve. But at fourteen, Matt had been more alone than he’d ever been in his life. No dad. No family. No Stick. No friends. No one the priest could use against him to make him keep the secret.

Stick would’ve been proud.

Except, well, there was one other weakness. Faith itself. The priest had been using it as a weapon all along during each and every session, so it made sense now, in hindsight, that he would use Matt’s faith against him one last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Peter 4:8 ~ "Above all, keep loving one another earnestly, since love covers a multitude of sins."


	10. Joel 3:21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for discussion of how abusers often cause survivors to feel pleasure as a way to maintain control. Again, nothing graphic, but it is discussed.

While it was still happening, he didn’t realize what it was. Matt started to hate going to confession, but he nevertheless kept coming back day after day. Father Sheridan had told him, leaving no room for doubt, that his soul needed it.

When Matt left the camp, he felt so guilty for feeling so relieved.

The first time he heard Father Lantom’s voice again, back at Clinton Church, it made him shiver. He felt like a different person, but Father Lantom didn’t seem to recognize the difference. Nor did anyone else.

He made sure to cover any visible marks Father Sheridan left on him. He didn’t know if the nuns would ask questions, or if they would see the marks for what they were and simply conclude that Matt had been extraordinarily sinful to need such punishment. Either way, Matt didn’t want to deal with it.

Besides, Father Sheridan reminded him one last time that telling anyone what happened would undo his forgiveness. The good news was that, logically, he must have been forgiven then. Right? So he didn’t have to go through that anymore. He didn’t even have to think about it anymore. It was over.

As long as he kept the devil in check.

So Matt stuffed the devil down as far as he could for as long as he could. Every time he did something he knew was wrong, he argued himself out of going to confession. Somehow, he didn’t really think Father Lantom would do what Father Sheridan did (and it didn’t occur to him to question why). But the choice to avoid confession wasn’t so much a rational decision as an instinct, one that would not be reasoned with or examined too closely.

Matt prayed on his own instead. Sometimes he even managed to find peace.

~

Matt woke slightly hungover and feeling like he hadn’t slept at all. He couldn’t remember any dreams, at least. Stumbling out of bed, he headed straight for the kitchen to guzzle water, hoping to combat his headache.

Meditation could help, too. Finishing a bottle of water, he turned towards the center of his living room. He should meditate. Except…if he quieted his mind, it would be harder to block out the things he was trying not to think about.

He was spared from having to make up his mind by his phone buzzing. _“Hannah McCarty. Hannah McCarty. Hannah McCarty,”_ the automated voice chirped.

Right, he’d given Hannah his person a number in case Samuel wanted to talk to him, since he didn’t want Foggy or Karen asking questions about why Samuel needed to talk to _him_ , specifically. He hurried back across the room.

 _“Hi, Matt.”_ There was noise in the background like she was driving. _“Is this a good time? I just dropped Samuel off at school and I have a quick question.”_

“Sure, what’s going on?”

_“I talked to Samuel about the possibility of suing Geary, and he…well, he has a lot of questions.”_

Matt frowned. “Questions for me specifically? Foggy and I could both talk to him.”

 _“I suggested that.”_ Her voice turned apologetic. _“He’d rather just talk to you, if that’s okay.”_

This wasn’t…great. As much as Matt wanted to help, it wasn’t good for Samuel to foster some kind of dependence on him. And if he told Matt things privately, would he want Matt to keep those things from Foggy? That wasn’t how law partners operated. Assuming whatever Samuel wanted to say was relevant to the case. Which it probably was.

Then again, Hannah hadn’t said anything about Samuel wanting to tell Matt something; she just said Samuel had questions. Matt could handle questions. “I can meet him after school, if you want,” Matt offered, hoping this wasn’t a mistake.

~

Well, agreeing to pick Samuel up after school was probably a bad idea. Matt wasn’t quite prepared for the absolute flood of middle schoolers pouring from the building, communicating entirely, as far as Matt could tell, in shrieks.

Matt took a few steps back until he was at the edge of the sidewalk. Not that this provided any real buffer from the noise.

Despite his training, it was impossible to pick Samuel out of the crowd until he peeled away, running straight for Matt. “Matt!”

“Hey, Sammy. How was school?”

“Lame,” Samuel said swiftly. “What are we doing today?”

“Wanna go for a walk?” Matt asked. Over the years, he’d found that talking about difficult subjects was much easier when at least part of the brain was engaged in something else, even if it was something as simple as walking.

“Yeah!” Samuel said so enthusiastically that Matt suspected he would’ve been just as excited if Matt suggested that they sit and watch ants eat breadcrumbs. “Lemme just text my mom. She said I had to let her know I’m with you.”

“No problem. I’m, uh, I’m glad she’s keeping track.” So very different from what it was like at St. Agnes, when each nun was concerned about at least ten students at once. As soon as Samuel sent the text, Matt unfolded his cane and gestured down the sidewalk away from where all the kids were still clustered in noisy groups.

Hitching his backpack up on his shoulders, Samuel fell into step beside him. “So my mom said she wants to hire you and Mr. Nelson to make Father Geary pay for what he did.”

“What do you think about that?” Matt asked, keeping his voice neutral.

Samuel’s head tilted up at him. “She’ll pay you, right? Don’t you want the money?”

Smart kid, already figuring out how a witness might be biased. “Samuel, Mr. Nelson—you can call him Foggy—and I, we get paid in banana bread half the time. It’s not about the money for us.”

“Banana bread,” Samuel echoed doubtfully.

Matt grinned. “And pies and cobblers. The banana bread’s my favorite, though. But really, we get paid in whatever people can afford to give us.”

“So you don’t care if my mom hires you?”

“I want…I want whatever happens to be what you need to have happen. If what you need is for your mom to hire us, then that’s what we’ll do. But if what you need is to just let the police do their investigation, that’s okay too.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Lots of differences. A big difference is what happens if Father Geary loses. If he loses in a civil lawsuit, which is the kind your mom would hire Foggy and me to bring, then he’ll have to pay your mom lots of money, and probably stop being a priest. But if he loses in a criminal trial, he’ll go to jail.”

Samuel stuck his hands in his pockets. “My mom could use the money.”

Matt was afraid he’d focus on that. “But what do _you_ want?”

Samuel was quiet, but his breathing kept hitching. He wanted to say something. Matt kept silent, giving him time to think it through. Finally, Samuel looked back up at him, body tense, and said timidly, “I don’t want Father Geary to go to prison. Is that bad?”

“Nothing you want is bad, Sammy. It just…it just is.”

Samuel relaxed. “Is _your_ priest—”

“He’s not my priest.” Matt adjusted his grip on his cane. “And he’s not in prison, no.”

“Did you do the other thing, then? The, um, the civil…?”

Matt kept his eyes forward. “No.”

“Why not?”

Why not, indeed? Matt tried to smile. “It was a long time ago.”

“Is it too late now?”

No, not with the brief window opened in the statute of limitations, a law passed specifically for people who’d been abused by priests although it could be applied more generally. “It’s, uh…it’s complicated,” Matt stammered. “I don’t really…” As he had no idea where that sentence was ending, he let it trail off.

“Sorry,” Samuel whispered.

“No, it’s fine, it’s just…” Matt had to get a _grip_. The last thing Samuel needed was to feel guilty just because Matt still, after all these years, didn’t have his shit together. He forced himself to say: “I never had anyone to help me.”

“What about your parents?”

“I didn’t have any.” His voice was colder now, and he didn’t mean it to be, but he couldn’t help it, and he was trying so hard not to think about how things might’ve been different if Maggie hadn’t been too much of a coward to let him know he was her son, because the last thing their relationship needed was more hurt that couldn’t be undone, but now it was all being dragged out into the open even though all Matt wanted to do was end this conversation immediately.

“Like, an _orphan?_ ” Samuel blurted out.

“Yes,” Matt said testily.

Samuel’s voice tightened. “Sorry, sorry, I’m really sorry—”

“It’s fine, Sammy. It’s just…it’s hard to talk about, all right?” Which was an _excellent_ segue. “And that’s something for you to think about, too. The police will want to talk to you about what happened, but if your mom hires Foggy and me, you’ll have to talk about it more.”

“To you?” Samuel asked. “I mean, I already talk to you.”

“Right, but it’d be different. More formal. And…you’d have to talk to the other lawyer, too. Father Geary’s lawyer.” He paused before he confused the kid more. “Let me back up. On the criminal side of things, the police might want to talk to you, and if the case goes forward, the prosecuting attorney—that’s the one trying to prove to a jury that Father Geary did all those things—will want to talk to you, too. But so will Father Gear’s defense attorney. On the civil side, Father Geary might have the same attorney, or he might have a different one. So…either way, that’s a lot of people to talk to.”

“Do they have to talk to _me_ , though? Can’t they talk to my mom? She knows what happened.” He hesitated. “Mostly.”

“But she wasn’t there,” Matt said gently. “She can talk about what she’s noticed, and she can talk about what you told her—” That was hearsay, technically, but there was no way Matt was about to try to explain the hearsay rule and its myriad exceptions and exclusions right now, “—but the story she tells won’t be as powerful as the story _you_ can tell.”

“So I have to talk.”

“Well…on the criminal side, yes. Eventually. If the case goes forward.” The defendant had a right to confront his accuser. Even if his accuser was a child. “But on the civil side, you don’t have to. It would make the case stronger if you did, but also remember that the burden of proof is lower in a civil trial than in a criminal trial.”

“What’s a burden of—”

“It’s how much we have to prove the case,” Matt answered. “In a criminal trial, the prosecution has to prove their case by beyond a reasonable doubt. That’s a really high burden, and it’s hard to do. It needs lots of evidence. But in a civil trial, we only have to prove our case by what’s called a preponderance of the evidence. That’s anything more than fifty percent.”

“Oh.” Samuel lifted his chin. “That’s easier.”

“Way easier,” Matt agreed.

“So maybe, if it’s the civil way, I won’t have to talk to anyone?”

“Maybe not. It’ll be up to you, no matter what.”

“But…you’re saying the criminal way means I have to talk about it?”

“If the case moves forward.” There were any number of reasons why it might not.

“Do I…do I have to tell them _everything?_ ”

An alarm went off in Matt’s head at the apprehension in Samuel’s voice. “You just have to answer the questions they ask, and you have to be completely truthful. But, uh…are there any specific things you’re worried about?”

Samuel lowered his head, and his answer was small: “Yes.”

“Have you—I’m not asking you to tell me them right now, but—are these things you’ve told me already?”

Samuel hesitated. Shook his head.

Shit. This was exactly what Matt had been wanting to avoid, but he didn’t want Samuel to think that he or anyone was afraid of what Samuel might have to say. “Okay. Again, I’m not asking you to tell me, but…do you _want_ to tell me?”

Samuel was biting his lip. He pushed his hands deeper into his pockets.

But then he nodded.

“Okay,” Matt said slowly. “Let’s, uh…” He scanned the area. There was a coffee shop at the end of the block. Steady music played, and people chattered, engrossed in their own conversations. “Is there somewhere we can sit? Somewhere private?” He made a show of sniffing the air. “I smell coffee and hot chocolate. Want me to buy you a cup?”

“Will you really?” Samuel’s voice was disbelieving.

Matt tried not to wonder when was the last time someone other than Hannah showed Samuel special attention without the intention of using it against him later. “Yeah, c’mon.”

Five minutes later, they were sequestered in the very back of the coffee shop, enveloped in warmth as they sat across from each other in a booth wedged in the corner, each holding giant, steaming mugs of hot chocolate. Samuel’s had extra whipped cream, and he was happily slurping at it.

Maybe they didn’t have to talk about priests anymore. Maybe they could just sit here and drink hot chocolate. Matt told himself it was for Samuel’s sake when he decided he wouldn’t bring up their reason for coming here. If Samuel wanted to talk, that was his choice; Matt wouldn’t push.

For several minutes, Samuel seemed thoroughly distracted by his hot chocolate. But suddenly he looked up. “Matt?”

His little body was giving off every possible sign of nervousness. “Yes?” Matt responded softly.

“Can I…can I tell you the thing now?”

“Of course you can. You can tell me whatever you want.”

Samuel still stared down at his cup for a long time before saying, very quietly, “He didn’t just make me touch him. Sometimes he touched me.”

Biting the inside of his cheek, Matt suppressed a shudder. “I’m sorry he did that to you, Sammy. He shouldn’t have done that.”

“Did…did your priest, um…”

“He’s not my priest,” Matt reminded him gently.

“Right, but did he touch you too?”

Matt bit down harder on the inside of his cheek. “Yeah.”

Samuel gave a tiny nod, as if to himself, and focused on his drink again. After a while: “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Did, um…” Samuel’s head was down. He thumped the back of his heel against the base of the booth. “Did, um…”

Matt waited patiently.

“Did it ever feel good?” Samuel finally blurted out.

Matt’s stomach dropped like he’d missed a step on a staircase.

“Did it?” Samuel’s heart pounded.

This was the time to backtrack. Reestablish the blurring boundaries between them. Tell Samuel to find someone else to talk to.

But Matt remembered the sickening combination of fear and arousal, both emotions feeding off each other. He remembered, once or twice, how his body chased the feeling of its own volition. He remembered the wetness in his underwear that he didn’t know what to do with, and he remembered the heavy shame that came with it.

And the priest had seemed so _satisfied_. Like he’d gotten exactly what he wanted.

Sure enough, even if Matt grew up and stopped believing in God and eternity, even if threats of judgment and damnation no longer held sway, the priest could count on the sheer humiliation to keep Matt’s mouth shut.

The last thing he wanted was to be one more reason for Samuel to feel ashamed.

He adjusted his grip on his mug as heat spread up his neck. “Uh, yeah. Sometimes. Sometimes it did. But that doesn’t…” Matt grimaced. “It doesn’t mean anything, all right?”

“It doesn’t?” Samuel sounded like he couldn’t quite dare to believe it.

“It’s just a physical reaction. Like, uh…” Matt tried to think of a nonviolent example. “Have you ever been to a doctor, and they tap your knee to check your reflexes?”

“Uh-huh.” There was an uncertain smile in Samuel’s voice. “I kicked the nurse, once. On accident.”

“Right, it was an accident,” Matt stressed. “You didn’t do it on purpose. It didn’t mean anything. It was just a reflex. A reaction. And, uh…what happened, what he did, it—it caused a reaction. Like, uh, feeling good. Or, you know, getting hard. Or even, um…”

“Yeah,” Samuel said quickly, face flaming. “Sorry. I was just wondering.”

“Look, Sammy?” Matt moved his mug side, leaning a little across the table.

Samuel cringed away. “Am I in trouble?”

“Absolutely not. I just…” Matt wet his lips, searching for the right way to say this. “This is really the kind of thing you should be talking to someone else about.”

“Sorry,” Samuel whispered. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Not that you _can’t_ talk to me,” Matt said. “But talking to me about this is kind of like…like coming to me when you have the flu. I can try to help, but I’m not a doctor. You need to talk to a doctor. Except, instead of a doctor for the flu, you need a therapist. A doctor for your mind.” And heart.

Samuel pulled back. “Am I going crazy?”

“No. Just…a therapist can help you deal with what happened to you. That’s all. No big deal.”

Samuel seemed to think about this. Then: “Do you have a therapist?”

“Uh…no.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t really, uh…”

“You said it’s not a big deal.”

Matt stifled a sigh of frustration. “Yeah, I did. You’re right. What about this: if you go to a therapist, so will I. Deal?”

It was like Samuel got physically lighter from relief. “Really?”

“I promise,” Matt lied. Well, he wasn’t _sure_ it was a lie. But he knew himself enough to know that it was probably a lie.

Samuel, however, could not read heartbeats.

~

Matt brought Samuel back to Hannah and brushed off her thanks and turned down her offer to pay him back for the hot chocolate. When Samuel hugged him, he hugged back. Then he got in a taxi to go home.

That was a mistake. He should’ve walked. Sitting there in the sealed-in cab, with nothing to do but think, the memories that had been buzzing around him all day came flooding in, and they didn’t come alone. They came with feelings.

His chest was tight, but the worst of it were the tears welling in his eyes. He sniffed and tucked his chin in and hoped the driver would think he was just cold, but something was building in him, something heavy and uncontrollable, about to break free. And he didn’t know what would happen once it did.

“Stop,” he gasped out. “Stop—stop—pull over. _Please_.”

The driver was lit up with concern, but he pulled the car over and Matt stumbled out, gulping down the cold city air. He threw a handful of cash back in the cab and took off at a pace just short of running, barely remembering to use his cane.

He didn’t know where he was going. He didn’t care. He just had to outrun that feeling.

~

Fortunately, his conversation with Samuel, and everything that followed, was the furthest thing from Matt’s mind a few hours later as he got ready. The date with Karen was still on. He’d double-checked, worried she might rethink things when she was sober. But no, she still wanted to go out, and now everything in him was zeroed in on his efforts to quash his nerves.

He had one shirt that fit just so, and Karen never failed to do a double-take when he wore it. Slipping it on, he did his best to smooth it down. He didn’t feel any wrinkles, and it was probably irrational to worry that she’d be put off by a few wrinkles even if they were there, but he couldn’t help it.

Inspiration struck. Grabbing his phone, he awkwardly swiped one-handed across the screen until the automated voice asked, _“Video call Foggy?”_

“Yes,” Matt told it clearly.

The phone rang three times before Foggy picked up. _“Hello? Did you mean to ask for video?”_

Matt powered through his embarrassment. “Uh, yeah. I’m taking Karen out, so…I just wanted a second opinion.” He did his best to aim the phone at himself.

 _“You want me to tell you how hot you are,”_ Foggy clarified, sounding thoroughly beleaguered by the burdens of this life.

“No!” Matt protested. “I want you to tell me if…I don’t know, if my shirt is stained or wrinkled or if my hair looks bad or if something doesn’t match.”

_“You’re wearing jeans, buddy. Nice jeans, by the way, but just FYI: it’s impossible to not match jeans.”_

Matt huffed in irritation. “Forget it.”

 _“Wait, wait!”_ Foggy stifled a laugh. _“Sorry. I’m being cruel. Give me a better look at your shoulder. No, sorry, other shoulder. Okay, yeah, there’s, like, a bit of lint. Just get rid of that, and you’re good to go.”_

“Are you sure?” Matt asked, trying to sweep the camera over himself once more.

_“Solid nine point seven out of ten.”_

“Why am I missing point three points?”

_“Because if I said ten out of ten you wouldn’t believe me, sheesh. Go be sexy. Or, wait, is that what you’re going for here? Would you rather be charming? Chivalrous? Devilish?”_

“Myself?” Matt offered.

 _“Mmmm.”_ Foggy pretended to think about it. _“Okay, yeah, I guess that’ll work. Have fun, make good choices!”_

“Thanks, Foggy.”

~

He heard her in her apartment. She was done getting ready, apparently; she was pacing back and forth in…her living room, he guessed, if he remembered her floorplan directly. He texted her to let her know he was there, and heard the exact moment she got the text. Her footsteps skidded to a stop, and…she kind of bounced, it sounded like.

Matt bit his lip to keep from grinning too widely. But…she _bounced_. In _excitement_. To see _him_.

She hurried down the stairs, her knee-length dress fluttering, but she stopped in the front hallway to adjust her hair. Then she came slipping out the front door, all her movements just a little quicker than normal. Graceful, but nervous. She finally came to a stop in front of him, tucking her hair behind her ears.

“Um,” she said. “Hi.”

He was doing a terrible job at not smiling. “Hey. Do you mind walking?” he asked. It was cold out, but the restaurant was within walking distance, and the less time they spent in a cab, the less time he had to pretend to be fully blind. He was wearing his glasses and had his cane tucked under his arm, but the few pedestrians out this late at night weren’t likely to notice if he didn’t seem as blind as they might expect.

“Not at all.” She slipped her hand into his, then stretched up on her toes to kiss his cheek. “Where’re we going tonight?”

“I got us reservations.” The restaurant wasn’t exactly _cheap stuff_ , but this was their first date since crashing and burning so spectacularly. He knew she didn’t need grand gestures, but he wanted to prove to himself that he was all in.

She bumped against his shoulder. “Ooh, fancy. You look nice, by the way.”

He raised his eyebrows as they started strolling down the sidewalk at an unhurried pace. “Well, Foggy said I was only a nine point seven out of ten.”

She hummed thoughtfully. “Foggy’s wrong.”

“Nine point eight?”

“What makes you think Foggy _underestimated_ you?”

Matt wrinkled his nose. “Is this how you treat all your dates, Miss Page?”

“Not if they’re a stranger. It’s the ones who’re my best friend that I have to tease.”

He opened his mouth to fire back something witty, but his brain got stuck on _best friend_ instead.

She misinterpreted his expression. “Sorry! You really do look great. Ten out of ten for sure. Better than me.”

“I find _that_ impossible to believe.”

She shrugged. “Facts are facts.”

He tilted his head towards her. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” she said immediately. “Well, unless it’s incriminating.”

“I don’t see how this could be incriminating.”

“Aw, are you sure? Because it kinda looks like you’re blushing.”

More heat rose to his face. “No, I’m not—”

“You are! Aw, _Matt_.”

He rolled his eyes. “Never mind.”

“No, no, sorry.” She squeezed his hand. “Ask me.”

Well, he really did want to know. “What…what color is your dress?”

“Blue,” she answered immediately. “Like the sky.”

“On a sunny day, or…?”

“A sunny day without a single cloud.”

“Thanks,” he said quietly. They walked along without speaking for a while, and then he cleared his throat. “Karen?”

“Yeah?”

“What…what color are your eyes?”

Her thumb rubbed a small circle over the back of his hand. “Foggy hasn’t told you?”

“I haven’t asked. Besides, he’d probably say purple or orange or something.”

She laughed a little. “Yeah, that sounds like Foggy.”

He stopped walking, turning her around to face him. “So?”

“Blue,” she said softly. “Like the sky.”

Her heartbeat fluttered as he brushed his unbroken fingers under her chin, tilting her face up towards him. Was she smiling? He wasn’t sure. He wished desperately to see her face. He did the next best thing: he touched the back of his other hand against her cheek.

Yes, she was smiling.

He leaned in, and so did she, and their lips met. She immediately stepped in closer, hands resting chastely on his chest. Her head tilted, and the smallest tip of her tongue flicked out.

He pressed forward, cupping her face, stroking his thumbs over her jaw, trying to memorize the contours. But they were in the middle of the sidewalk—this wasn’t exactly the place for this, which he noticed abruptly when she almost backed into a light pole.

He broke the kiss regretfully, treasuring her tiny sigh in response, and rested his forehead against hers, content to stay there forever.

She seemed to agree. Her hands curled in the fabric of his shirt, and for a long time, they simply breathed each other in.

Then she drew back. “Are those reservations for, like, a specific time?”

He blinked. “Oh. Right. That is how they work, yeah.”

“So, not that this isn’t nice, but…” She brushed her fingertips over his lips. “If you set it all up, I’d hate for it to go to waste.”

“No, you’re right. We should get going.” But he couldn’t resist going in for one more kiss. “Okay. Now I’m ready.”

She laughed. He smiled.

See?

He was fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Narrator: he was not fine.
> 
> Joel 3:21 ~ "I will avenge their blood, blood I have not avenged, for the Lord dwells in Zion."


	11. 2 Corinthians 1:3-4

Matt jerked awake, tangled in his sheets and dripping in sweat, tears in his eyes, gasping for air, hands shaking and skin crawling at the ghostly pressure of fingers lingering on his thighs.

Not real. Not real. It was over.

He hit his alarm clock and cursed aloud when it gave the time. He’d cut off Daredeviling just after midnight, even though he _knew_ he was leaving people out there to get hurt. But he wasn’t stupid; the world on fire was blurry and he stumbled over his feet more than once in the short time he’d been out there tonight. He needed more sleep than he was getting if he wanted to be effective at what he had to do out there.

And yet it was one forty-three in the morning, which meant he’d gotten _less_ than two fitful hours of sleep.

Great.

Kicking away the sheets, he rolled out of bed and slid down onto the cold hardwood floor, pressing his back against the bedframe. With his heart still racing, all he wanted to do was throw on a mask and go running outside. Feel the wind in his face, find someone to save, find someone to rip apart. Forget entirely about his life during the day.

But if he went out _now_ , he had no idea when he’d be back. Probably not until sunrise. And he couldn’t afford to miss work. It would just…it would just make everyone suspicious.

Besides. He had a job to do there as well, one he couldn’t do if he was too tired to think.

So Matt locked his arms around his legs and pressed his forehead into his knees and tried to just…wait this out. Whatever this was. Eventually, his thundering pulse slowed and quieted, his ragged breaths smoothed out again. But that only left room for the emptiness of his apartment to come swooping in. His refrigerator hummed, and his watch ticked on his nightstand, but other than that…other than that, every sound he could hear was _outside_.

The near-silence was deafening. The emptiness threatened to crush his lungs, and that—that—that _feeling_ was welling up again.

He raised his voice. “Out of my distress, I called on the Lord. The Lord answered me and set me free. The Lord is on my side, I will not fear. What can man—” He stopped. “What c-can—” He stopped again.

Man could do a lot.

Suddenly, impulsively, Matt grabbed his phone from the bedside table, swiping at it until its mechanical voice inquired, _“Call Claire?”_

He already felt guilty, but he forced the word out of his throat. “Yes.”

 _“Calling Claire,”_ the phone informed him.

He listened to it ring, already half-hoping she wouldn’t answer. He was taking advantage. It wasn’t fair. She hadn’t signed up for this.

But before he could get up the courage to hang up, her voice cut through, safe and familiar. _“Hello? Matt?”_

“Hey,” he said in a relieved exhale, leaning back against the bed, closing his eyes as he heard her voice. Thin and distorted through the phone, but real. She sounded tired, but also worried about him.

_“Are you okay?”_

“Yeah, yeah. I’m at my apartment. That’s why I’m calling with this phone, not, you know…” He cringed. He was explaining too much. “Just…I was just wondering if, um…if you could…help.”

 _“Were you seriously out punching people when your hand’s still broken? How bad is it?”_ He heard rustling in the background, like she was grabbing stuff. _“I’m on my way.”_

“No!” he burst out, then bit his tongue.

A pause. _“No?”_

“No, sorry, I mean—I’m fine. I just mean…” This was a terrible idea from the start. “You don’t need to come over.”

_“Well, are you coming here, then?”_

“No, really, I’m okay. I just…” What was a reasonable excuse for calling her but not letting her actually come to him? “I think I sprained my wrist.”

_“I thought you said you weren’t punching people with a broken hand!”_

Idiot. “My other wrist,” he said lamely.

 _“…Okay.”_ Her voice dripped with skepticism. _“Have you iced it? Do you still have those compression bandages?”_

He nodded along even though she couldn’t see it, like that would make him sound more convincing. (What was he _doing?_ ) “Yeah, yeah. All of that. But…but I went out last night, and I think…I made it worse?”

She sighed, sounding entirely unsurprised with him. _“How big are the tears in the tissue? Can you tell?”_

“Not too big,” he said quickly. “Just…it hurts, and I want it to get better as soon as possible. So I can go out again.”

_“Well, there’s not much I can tell you. Keep icing it. Take some anti-inflammatory pills. I know you hate pills, but trust me. You need your wrists to punch, right?”_

“Right,” he said. “Thanks, Claire. I’ll—I’ll do that.”

She wasn’t finished. _“You can also come over later today. My shift starts in just a couple hours, so I’ll be home by the time you’re off work. I can give you some exercises for stretching it, if you want.”_

“Oh, uh, no, that—that won’t be necessary. But thank you,” he added, suddenly desperate to be off the phone before he accidentally committed to something. But he still couldn’t bring himself to actually hang up on her.

 _“…You don’t want the stretches?”_ Her voice was laced with suspicion. _“You’ll heal faster.”_

“No, yeah, I know,” he stammered. “I just mean…I might not be able to. There’s a lot going on at work, we’re putting in late hours. And I don’t want to take up too much of your time. I’ll just, um…YouTube it.”

Silence.

“Thank you, Claire,” he managed weakly. “Seriously, thank you. I’ll…I’ll let you know how it’s doing, all right?”

But no, she wasn’t letting him off the hook that easily. _“What aren’t you telling me?”_

“Nothing, Claire.” There was a hint of pleading in his tone. “Sorry to bother you. I just…I just wanted to be careful.”

She scoffed into the phone. _“You, careful? Since when?”_

“I guess I’m maturing,” he said, and immediately cringed, unable to believe he’d said something so stupid. He really should hang up. But he couldn’t go back to that silence, he just _couldn’t_.

And Claire showed no signs of hanging up either. _“Well, that’s a relief to hear.”_

He held his breath instead of responding.

Her breathing hitched. _“Look, Matt, I have time before my shift. Can I come over?”_

“No,” he said, too fast. “Sorry. You should sleep. I should sleep. I should—I should go.”

 _“Okay,”_ she said calmly. _“So go.”_

What was she, a mind reader? Matt couldn’t tell if he was afraid of her or simply in awe. He pulled the phone away from his ear.

But he couldn’t bring himself to hit the button that would disconnect them.

Claire waited ten long seconds.

Then: _“I’m coming over.”_

She hung up.

~

Matt paced his bedroom. When that was too small, too confining, he opened the door and paced the living room and kitchen and up and down the stairs to the roof. He didn’t go near the hallway to the front door. He felt like when he was a kid and got in trouble at school and had to wait in the kitchen for his dad to get home just so he could tell him what he’d done.

After twenty-five minutes, give or take, he finally heard her footsteps on the other side, her slightly heavier breathing from climbing the stairs, and the telltale thump of her bag, stuffed with medical supplies, hitting her leg.

Matt scrambled back into his bedroom to grab a hoodie, pulling it on and zipping it up, tugging the sleeves down over his wrists. Not that she wouldn’t know he was lying the second she tried to examine him, but…he selfishly wanted to delay the inevitable.

She knocked, even though he’d given her a key a long time ago, just in case. This was the first time he could remember her choosing not to use it. Probably because this was the first time she’d invited herself over like this.

It felt a little unfair, though. Forcing him to get up and let her in, forcing him to take an active part in his imminent humiliation. She was going to realize he’d lied, and he was a tiny bit terrified that he’d cry or something when she called him on it. (He already felt like crying.)

He went along with it, though. Shuffling down the hallway like he was on his way to the principal’s office. He opened the door, and her scent swirled around him. Pomegranate shampoo, jasmine tea and honey, and a sharp hint of the cool, sterile smell of the hospital underneath.

“Hey,” she greeted him, and he imagined her eyes raking over him. “Thanks for letting me in.”

“’Course,” he said, like it hadn’t been a question despite the fact that his voice was strained from the tightness in his throat. Stepping back, he held the door open for her. “Come in. Can I get you anything?”

“ _Not_ beer,” she said. “But if you have any tea, I’ll take it.”

Probably not as good as hers, but yes, he did have some tea. He closed the door, not bothering to lock it, and followed her down the hall. The floor creaked under her footsteps. She made herself right at home in his living room, dumping her bag on the coffee table and dropping ungracefully onto one of his chairs, while he detoured to the kitchen. He took his time rifling through cabinets, though. Still trying to delay the inevitable.

“So it’s been a while,” she remarked eventually.

“Yeah, I’ve been…careful, lately.” Lie, lie, such a lie. _Why_ was he lying to her so much? It was like he couldn’t help it. And, yeah, he’d never exactly had a particular aversion to dishonesty, but since when did he have this much of a pathology?

“Except your wrist,” she noted. “And your hand.”

“Uh…yeah.” He filled a kettle with water and set it on the stove.

To his relief, she didn’t push it. “So, you wouldn’t _believe_ the day I had today. Or, well, yesterday, technically, I guess.”

He managed a small smile as he turned around, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed over himself as he waited for the water to boil. “Yeah?”

She started talking, her voice filling all the barren cracks and corners of his apartment. She talked about people coming in with the disastrous results of various home remedies and some teenage boys who’d tried an internet dare and burned themselves by microwaving grapes.

“See, that’s why I don’t use microwaves,” Matt said, gesturing at his stove.

Claire snorted. “Because you’re afraid of creating tiny plasma balls?”

“Yes, exactly that.” The kettle started whistling. He poured water into two mugs. “What kind of tea do you want?”

“I’ll take anything citrus-y.”

The scent would clash magnificently with the other smells clinging to her. It felt very _Claire_. He dropped a bag of tea into each mug and carefully carried them over to the living room, setting them down on the coffee table so that it would be less awkward when he opted for sitting on the couch instead of joining her in the chair next to hers.

If she noted his distance, she didn’t comment on it, instead just picking up her mug and blowing on it softly. “Smells great.”

“Agreed.” The warmth from his own mug seeped into his hands.

Her breathing hitched, and he braced himself, but all she said was, “How was your day?”

She was making small talk. She definitely knew something was wrong if she was making small talk. “Ah, good. It was good.”

“Anything interesting?”

“Do you consider sentencing enhancements interesting?”

“…Maybe I will, once you tell me how they work.”

He laughed at that, and if it sounded forced or nervous, she didn’t say anything. She let him get away with talking about sentencing enhancements for about fifteen minutes, which was honestly generous of her. But he was rapidly running out of things to say that he could even pretend were interesting.

“Matt,” she said finally, quietly.

He at least had enough dignity to not keep dragging this out. He didn’t say anything.

“Can I see your wrist?”

“It’s fine,” he whispered.

But she got up off the chair and walked across the room to sit on the edge of the couch. “Can I see it?”

Biting his lip, he rolled back both sleeves and simply said, “I’m sorry.”

Her hand brushed over her skin. Then she nodded like she wasn’t surprised, and moved her hand to his shoulder. “Wanna tell me what’s going on?”

He closed his eyes. He couldn’t. He couldn’t tell her one part without telling her all of it, and he didn’t want to burden her with that. He didn’t want to feel the weight of her knowledge every time she spoke to him from this point on. He didn’t want to ruin whatever friendship was left between them.

And besides, he didn’t know where to start.

“Matt.” Her hand slid up into his hair. “Why’d you call me tonight?”

He owed her _something_ , didn’t he? For making her come all the way out here on a lie? “I…I’m so sorry, Claire. I just…it was a bad night.”

Her hand stayed in his hair, fingers curling and uncurling in a soothing rhythm. “Are you hurt somewhere else?”

“No,” he admitted.

“Was it something you saw, then? Or—you know what I mean.”

Yeah, he could go with that. He nodded.

“Wanna talk about it?”

“It was…” Maybe there was a way to tell her some of it after all. If he just…twisted the details a little. Maybe. Or was that just as bad as a lie?

“You know,” she remarked, “I see some pretty shitty stuff. Some of the truly horrible things people can decide to do to each other.”

“I know.”

“So, I’m just saying…whatever happened tonight, maybe I’ll understand.”

No, because everything at the hospital happened to strangers. He was her _friend_ , and he’d worked so hard to become so. And to remain so. He couldn’t afford to wreck what they had.

Sighing, she pulled her hand out of his hair and held her tea instead. “Have you talked to _anyone_ about…whatever’s going on?”

He couldn’t. He changed the subject. Kind of. “Claire, you’re Catholic, right?”

Her head tilted like he’d caught her off guard, and she took a moment to consider the question. “I don’t really go to church anymore.”

“Okay, but do you believe in God?”

“Yes,” she said evenly. “I just got turned off by all the rules and rituals, I guess. Seemed like they were just made up by people as an excuse to exclude other people. Or make themselves seem more spiritual. I don’t think God, if He really loves us, would make us jump through hoops like that just to get close to Him.”

Matt twisted his fingers together. “So you have faith, but you don’t go to church? Ever?”

She shrugged. “Christmas. Easter.”

“But…” He wet his lips. “So, what, you get close to God on your own?”

She tilted her head. “Yeah. Works better for me than having to go through a priest.”

“But…” He cleared his throat. “How do you know you’re doing it right?”

“Getting close to God right?” she clarified skeptically, hands spreading in a confused gesture, like, _where are you going with this?_

“Yeah. I mean, think about us, for instance,” he said, gesturing between them. “For us, getting closer means…learning about each other. Knowing each other. But it has to be true. Like, if you thought you knew me but you also thought I, I don’t know, work as a dentist and play golf in my spare time...you wouldn’t really know me. Not the real me. Right?”

“I guess not.” A frown weighed down her voice. “But what makes you think I need a priest to know what’s true about God?”

“Do you really think you can figure it out on your own?”

“I think God can show me, if He wants to.”

“But how do you know that it’s Him showing you, and not just you believing what you want to think?”

“How do you know the priest is telling the truth,” she countered, “and not just passing on whatever dogma he’s been taught?”

Matt fidgeted with the hem of his hoodie. “Never mind.”

“No, hang on.” She scooted closer, the couch creaking beneath her. “What brought all this on? Is there, I don’t know, some kind of problem at your church? Is that what you’re so upset about?”

“No,” he said quickly. “There’s no problem. Not…not at my church.”

“Okay,” she said slowly. “But some other church.”

“Yeah,” he admitted. He could give her that much.

“What’s the problem?”

If he said any of it, what was to stop her from guessing all of it?

“Matt.”

She was so close, her breath ghosting across his face, her heart beating faster than normal. It was nothing but concern for him, he knew that, but he couldn’t help imagining for a second that it was something else.

He could lean forward right now and kiss her. It would be so easy. It didn’t have to go anywhere or mean anything; it could just be a way to thank her for coming all the way out here. A way to apologize for lying. A way to distract himself, distract them both. A way to reassure her that he was fine.

His stomach flipped as his body took the path of least resistance, leaning in.

“Matt.” She stopped him with a hand on his chest. “What are you doing?”

The guilt slammed into him and rose up from within him at the exact same time, the external and internal colliding. He froze where he was with no idea how to extricate himself.

Claire’s heart beat faster. “Matt, something’s wrong.”

He couldn’t say anything. He couldn’t move.

She put her hand on his knee. “You’re scaring me here, a little.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s going on.”

Like he couldn’t kick her out. Like he couldn’t disappear back into the night. Like he couldn’t just get up and go into his bedroom and lock the door.

He couldn’t do any of that, actually. Not to her.

Maybe he could tell her part of it. That would make her feel better, anyway. Make her feel like she’d helped him. It was the least he could do for her after making her come all the way out here on a lie. He finally shifted backwards, putting more space between them, and cleared his throat. “It’s, uh, it’s just…we got a new case.”

Claire pulled her hand back, leaning sideways against the couch to listen.

“It’s not really _our_ case, actually. There’s nothing we can really do. But our client, she wants our help.”

Claire nodded, not interrupting, letting him tell as much or as little as he wanted.

“It’s about her son,” he said quietly. “Her son was raped.”

Claire let out a sympathetic murmur.

Matt braced himself. “By a priest.”

She stiffened ever so slightly.

“And it’s just, uh…it’s been getting to me.” He raised his eyebrows, embarrassed. “Like I said, it was a bad night.”

“Couldn’t sleep?” she asked, probing.

She was also giving him an out, if he wanted it. But he shook his head.

“Nightmare,” she realized aloud. “I’m so sorry.”

“Not your fault.”

“No, it’s not, but still.” Leaning her head against the back of the couch, she sighed. “I have to say this, though, Matt. You can’t lie about injuries to get me to come over here. That’s not okay.”

Shame squeezed his chest. “No, I know, I’m—I’m so sorry, Claire, I just—”

“I know you know,” she interrupted, voice low. “Which is why I’m kinda shocked you did it anyway. And I can’t help thinking that a bad dream wouldn’t really be enough to drive you to it.”

He tensed. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you do.” Her hand was still on his knee. “But I’m not gonna push you to tell me whatever’s really going on. I guess I just want you to know I’m still really worried about you. That’s all.”

Worry? He didn’t know what to _do_ with that. Especially because he knew he wouldn’t be able to convince her that there was nothing to worry about. In fact, he was becoming increasingly aware that there was no one in his life who would accept his false reassurances any longer. Part of being honest about Daredevil apparently meant giving the people in his life more insight into him than he’d ever expected.

From the beginning, though, his relationship with Claire had been different. Marked by honesty unlike anything he’d had with anyone else, except his dad. Sure, he’d given her a fake name at first, but that was nothing compared to the parts of him she’d seen right from the start, the parts of him he’d tried so hard to keep hidden from everyone else.

So maybe…maybe he could tell her? She hadn’t let anything else about him scare her off.

She was also the only person in his life he could afford to avoid, if it didn’t go well. Well…avoiding her might mean dying sooner rather than later, since even Maggie’s medical skills paled in comparison to all of Claire’s training. But unlike with Foggy and Karen at the office or with Maggie and Father Lantom at church, nothing in his life actually required him to be around her.

And Claire didn’t have to be around any of them. He could afford to lose her, maybe, if it came to that.

It had to be, what, two in the morning by now? Maybe three? It was a time made for raw honesty.

He cleared his throat again. “I, um…”

She made a tiny noise, a barely-audible hum of encouragement.

“I haven’t…” Rubbing at the back of his neck, he forced a laugh. “I haven’t told anyone this.”

“It’s up to you, Matt.”

His breathing was getting strange. Chest rising and falling more than it needed to, even though he definitely wasn’t getting any more oxygen than he’d been before. And he couldn’t stop it.

She moved her grip from his knee to his hand, squeezing.

With the same surge of recklessness that let him jump off buildings, he made himself say: “It happened to me.”

Unlike his, her breathing remained completely even. Not even her heartrate changed.

Cold panic gripped his chest. “You knew?” What, could she tell? Could _everyone_ tell? Had they all just been playing along, patronizing him, pretending not to—

“Only based on what you’ve said tonight,” she answered gently. “And I didn’t _know_. But…I see all kinds of things in the ER. At some point, no awful thing seems impossible.”

His mouth moved soundlessly around the word _yeah_.

“Do you…” She hesitated. “Do you want to talk about it? You don’t have to. Just…if you want to. I’m here.”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry I called you here.”

“Why, do you want me to leave?” she asked bluntly.

He had to bite his lip to keep from blurting out _no._

Claire took a deep breath. “Okay. Just give me one second.”

For what?

She didn’t explain, just fished her phone out of her pocket and started texting someone.

Sheer horror shot through him. “Are you telling Foggy?”

“’Course not,” she said immediately, no hint of a lie. “I’m calling out of my shift.”

“But…” Why would she do that?

“There.” Slipping her phone back into her pocket, she stood up. “Okay, I need to borrow some spare clothes and a toothbrush.”

“…What?”

“I’m staying the night,” she informed him, footsteps heading into his bedroom, leaving him with no choice but to awkwardly follow her.

“You don’t have to do that,” he tried to say.

She stopped and turned her head, apparently glancing at him over her shoulder. “Do you want me to leave?”

A lump rose in his throat. “…Please stay.”

“Okay, then,” she said simply. “I’ll be needing your comfiest shirt, because I _know_ you have the softest stuff.”

He gestured at his wardrobe, still unable to quite believe this was happening. “Anything you want.”

That was how, ten minute later, they ended up in his bed—he under the covers, she over the covers but under a blanket. He was curled on his side, facing her, focusing on her steady heartbeat, while she propped herself up on the pillows and stroked her hand through his hair and talked about nothing important.

She fell asleep before he did, while he lied awake, listening to her heartbeat. When sleep finally did claim him, her heartbeat echoed through his dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2 Corinthians 1:3-4 ~ "Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God."


	12. Proverbs 24:6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I'm not spamming you guys with updates. But I'm kinda celebrating passing the required ethics exam for lawyers in the US (!!!!!) and am also feeling pitiful with a really bad cold. Solution? Post a chapter, I guess.
> 
> Disclaimer: I am not a therapist! I simply have several therapists in my life who graciously allow me to pester them with questions about fanfiction.

Matt woke with tearstains on his cheeks, but if Claire noticed, she didn’t say anything.

He made her breakfast that morning, just like he did the last time she stayed over. She wasn’t wearing his robe, though, and he didn’t try to kiss her. Embarrassment swept through him at the memory of trying last night.

She was acting unbothered, at least—except for the fact that she was just a little more careful around him. Everything from her touch (she refused to leave without double-checking that he didn’t have some injury he’d been overlooking) to her words were as light and soft as mothwings. Like he really was made of glass. He should hate it. But he…maybe didn’t?

“Thanks for the breakfast,” she said when she finally had to leave, dressed in the same clothes from last night. “And, Matt?”

“Yeah?”

She lightly touched his arm. “Thank you for talking to me.”

“Sure,” he said roughly. “Thank you for staying.” Those four simple words fell horribly short of the thanks he owed her, but he suspected she understood what he wasn’t saying.

Going up on her toes, she kissed his cheek. “Promise me something?”

“What?” He knew better than to agree to a promise when he didn’t know the terms.

“Take care of yourself. Okay?”

He gave her a half-grin. “I always—” He broke off, cocking his head.

“What?” Claire asked.

The cat was back, walking around on the roof. She hadn’t returned since spending the night, and Matt had felt bizarrely betrayed by her absence. Like she’d promised something and taken it away. But now she was back, and he didn’t care what Claire thought; he just wanted the cat to know that his place was the place to come for food and warmth.

“Where are you going?”

“One sec,” he said, jogging up the steps to open the door. Like last time, the cat instantly darted into the apartment, but this time she froze at the bottom step as she noticed Claire.

And Claire noticed her. “Is that a _cat?_ ”

“I believe so, yes.” Matt shut the door and followed the cat more slowly down the stairs.

“You just—you just let a cat into your apartment.”

“Well, I hope I did. It seems too small to be a raccoon, so…”

“You have a cat!”

“I do not have a cat,” he said patiently, getting out the cat food he’d found himself buying a few days ago and pouring it into a bowl. He got some lunch meat from the fridge, too. The cat deserved a proper welcome after being away for so long.

Claire folded her arms, observing him. “Looks an awful lot like you have a cat.”

“I wouldn’t know.” He set the bowl on the floor—not in the kitchen, since the cat seemed wary of Claire, but by the table.

“Boy or girl?”

“Girl,” Matt answered, listening as she scarfed down the lunch meat before starting on the cat food at a more reasonable pace. “I think.”

“What’s her name?” Claire asked.

He shrugged. “How should I know? Besides, I think she’s a stray.”

“I mean, what did _you_ name her?”

“I haven’t named her. She’s not my cat.”

“Uh-huh.”

Matt took refuge in disgruntled silence as he stroked the cat, who twined her tail around his arm.

“Well, do you at least know if she’s had her shots and everything?”

“No,” Matt said, confused. Why would he?

“I mean, if no one else is gonna take care of it…”

“Claire. I am not taking this cat to the vet.”

“Shouldn’t you at least get her spayed? Or neutered, if you’re wrong about the sex.”

“That’s not…” Wait. Maybe that was his responsibility, actually. Matt frowned. It just felt like a weird amount of commitment for a cat that wasn’t his.

“I’ll bring you a cat carrier,” Claire offered. No, _informed_ him. “I may hate cats, but I’ve spent enough time watching them to know what stuff they need.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

There was a smirk in her voice when she said, “Well, you look like you could use all the help you can get with her.”

Matt was torn between offense over the fact that she was making fun of him and gratitude for the help she was offering, given that he had no idea how to take care of a cat. Not that he had to take care of this one. But Claire had a point: a litter of stray kittens was the community’s problem, and he was supposed to help the community. More often via violence against criminals, true, but still.

“Incidentally, uh…” Matt shifted his weight. “Can you tell me what she looks like?”

After a very knowing pause, Claire said, “She’s cute. Small, although I guess you can tell that. She’s kind of dirty, but it looks like underneath that she’s all black. Like a void, but with whiskers. Her eyes are pale, pale green.”

He nodded to himself, forming a mental picture.

“Don’t name her Shadow or something cliché like that.”

He sighed. “I’m not naming her anything.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Claire, she’s not mine.”

“If you say so.” Claire headed for the front hall. “Anyway, I’ll remind you that I’m allergic, but I will still come put you back together even if a cat starts living here. Guess that means I love you a lot, huh?”

He glanced up in her direction. “I would never assume.”

Her voice turned fond. “Go ahead and assume, Matt.”

~

He felt strangely lighter even after Claire left. Light enough to make the call he’d been putting off. He assured himself that just because he was reaching out to a therapist (one he’d Googled extensively, and yet despite his best efforts he’d failed to find anything to cause him to _not_ want to see her) didn’t mean he had to immediately _talk_ to the therapist. They were probably pretty busy.

Except this one happened to have an opening in her schedule that evening.

Matt almost talked himself out of it three times on the way to her office. Turning back would be a bit awkward, since he was in a cab, but he still considered asking the driver to take him back home. Or just drop him off. He could walk. When local construction caused a detour, Matt couldn’t help hoping it was a sign. Permission to go home. It wasn’t giving up if they literally couldn’t get to the office, right?

But apparently Google Maps was smarter than local construction, or else the driver knew the streets of this city as well as Matt knew the roofs, because just a few minutes later, the cab was pulling to a stop and Matt had to accept that, yes, he was really here and this was really happening.

He owed it to Foggy and Karen and Claire and Hannah and Samuel to…to at least _try_ to get his shit together.

With only three therapists, the office was too small to have a receptionist. Matt let himself into the waiting room. It was impressively soothing: a fairly open space with comfortable seating, recently cleaned. There was no radio or TV blaring noise; instead, he heard the trickling of water from a fountain in the corner. He settled into a chair, resisting the churlish temptation to feel indignant that a room obviously designed to help people calm down was having that exact effect on him.

“Mr. Murdock?” A woman emerged from one of the rooms, wearing professional slacks and a blouse with her slender cornrows pulled back in a low ponytail. She moved a bit stiffly, though, like her back hurt. She’d probably been sitting too long.

Matt stood up, holding out his hand. “Hello, Dr. Dorner?”

Her hand met his. Hers was smooth with recently-applied lotion, although there were slight callouses from holding pens. “Great to meet you. If you want to follow me to my office, it’s about…ten steps forward, and then take a right. Or I could lead you?”

“Leading is fine.” He appreciated that she hadn’t assumed he’d need her assistance, though, and allowed himself to feel cautiously optimistic about how their session would go.

She led him to her private office, which didn’t include a water fountain but did feature some kind of slowly-revolving decorative orb on the bookshelf. It wasn’t obtrusive, but it was placed opposite the leather couch. Something to distract sighted patients when the sessions became too intense? Or just a conversation starter? He sat on the couch, which was actually of quite a nice quality. A good couch was probably an important investment for a psychologist.

She sat not directly across from him but at an angle. A legal notepad and pen waited on her desk, but she didn’t reach for them yet. “Were you able to find it here okay? I know there’s construction out there. Has been for the last four months. I’m thinking it _might_ be gone by the turn of the decade, but in this city? Who knows.”

Matt cracked a small smile. “I took a cab. The driver was able to get around it okay.”

“Great.” She sounded like she meant it, not like it was a platitude. “So, Mr. Murdock, have you ever been to therapy before?”

“Uh, no. Unless you count trauma recovery.” He gestured at his eyes. “I wasn’t born blind.”

“Oh.” Sympathy now laced her voice. “How did that happen?”

“Car accident. When I was a kid.”

“How old?”

“Nine.” He paused, waiting for her to take her notepad and jot a note as she built her understanding of his Tragic Backstory.

She didn’t. “Wow. I can’t imagine going through that kind of change as a nine-year-old.”

And she didn’t even know the whole story. Not that he could fill her in. He shrugged.

“Did you find it helpful?” she asked. “The trauma recovery, I mean.”

Interesting that she didn’t just assume. “Parts of it,” he said. “Not all of it.” Not only because the specialists he’d talked too then hadn’t known the whole story either, but also because some things sounded too cliché to accept, even if they were true. He’d been suspicious and skeptical as a kid. Not much had changed since then.

“Well, Mr. Murdock—”

“Matt,” he said. “You can call me Matt.”

There was a small smile in her words now. “Well, Matt, I asked because I want to get more of a sense of what you expect, and also what you’re looking for in these sessions. You said when you signed up for an appointment that you just wanted to talk through some things, and we can start on that whenever you want, but first, if you’re okay with it, I wondered if we could get to know each other a bit?”

On the one hand, it was his money paying for each minute of her time, so he didn’t really want to take this slow. On the other, he wasn’t exactly eager to talk about the reason he’d come. He quirked his lips. “How’d you get into counseling?” he asked.

She folded her hands in her lap. “My stepdad was abusive. I didn’t see a counselor about it until I was in college, and I swear he just made it worse. I was able to find a better counselor, later, but I’d already resolved to try to make the ratio of good counselors to bad counselors just a little better. Once I was more healed, I went back to school for my Master’s, and now…” She spread her hands. “Here I am. What about you? Why did you decide to go into law?”

“I wanted to help people,” he said simply.

“Lot of ways to do that, though,” she commented.

The conversation was casual, but he couldn’t shake the sense that she was observing him thoroughly, like she was building some sort of baseline of his personality. He tried not to let it affect him. “I did a project on Thurgood Marshall when I was a kid,” he explained.

“Ah. That’d do it.” She tilted her head. “What about the rest of your story?”

“What do you mean?”

“You can just tell me whatever you think I should know about you.”

That seemed a little overbroad. He tapped his fingers on his cane. “I was raised by my dad. He was a boxer. He died shortly after I lost my sight.”

She inhaled. “I take it your mother wasn’t around?”

“She was, uh…” How to explain Maggie? “She left when I was born to be a nun. I didn’t know her. So she was around, technically, since I was at St. Agnes until I turned eighteen, but…she didn’t tell me who she was until recently.”

“Wow.” Dr. Dorner’s surprise seemed sincere. “That’s…a lot.”

He shrugged again.

“How are things with your mother now?”

Matt cleared his throat. “That’s not, uh, actually what I wanted to talk to you about.” And, in fact, there was no way to explain the complexities of his relationship with Maggie without talking about the…other things.

Dr. Dorner nodded, then caught herself. “Sorry, I just nodded. What did you want to talk about?”

He knew how psychotherapist-client confidentiality worked, but he still felt like he was sharing something he shouldn’t as he said, “We—my firm, we have a new client. A middle school boy. He was sexually abused by his priest.”

“Oh,” she murmured. “That’s terrible.”

“We’re trying to help him and his mother. The police are investigating, but we don’t know if there’ll be a prosecution. It’s possible that our clients will want to file a civil suit.”

“And how do you feel about that?” Dr. Dorner asked patiently.

“It’s complicated.” Matt started fidgeting with the strap of his cane, caught himself, and forced himself to stop. “Because the same thing happened to me when I was fourteen.”

There. It was out.

“Oh.” It was the perfect amount of sympathy without shock, so perfect that he was immediately suspicious. “I’m so sorry that happened to you.”

He didn’t know what to say to that, so he just shrugged.

“So, do you…want to talk about what happened to you, then?”

He shook his head. “It’s in the past, it’s over. I’m just trying to focus on helping our client. But I can’t—I mean, it keeps—” He spun his fingers through the air, trying to explain it. “I need to focus.”

She hummed thoughtfully. “That might be hard, if this new case is bringing all those memories back. And that’s perfectly normal, Matt.”

“But it’s not good for our client,” he argued. “I can’t keep getting distracted by…by what happened to me. You can help with that, right?” That was what therapists _did_ , wasn’t it?

“I can try,” she said, to his relief. “Maybe we can start by you telling me how these memories are distracting? Is it thoughts, feelings, dreams, memories…?”

He clenched his jaw. “All of it.”

“Can you tell me more about what that looks like? I mean, um…” She flushed slightly, and Matt weirdly felt a bit better that she was flustered, even if it was just for using visual language. “I mean, what kinds of thoughts and feelings? And can you tell me what the dreams involve? Are you reliving past memories, or imagining something in the future, or is it something else entirely?”

He swallowed. “The dreams are memories. Exaggerated, sometimes, but…memories. And everything else is just…I don’t know. I’m on edge all the time. And I keep thinking other people will be able to _tell_ …”

She nodded encouragingly, remembered he couldn’t see it, and hummed instead. “Mmm-hmm. Does this mean the people in your life don’t know what happened?”

“One does,” he admitted. “But I’m not around her that often. I don’t think she’s really treating me any differently now, but…” He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Our friendship has always been…different. Limited, I guess.”

“So the people who are closer to you don’t know? But you’re worried about what would happen if they did?”

Matt gritted his teeth. “You could say that.”

“Can I ask why? What do you think would change, if they knew?”

Everything. “My best friend is my law partner,” he began haltingly. “My girlfriend works in the office with us as a private investigator. We’re a small firm. We rely on each other. I can’t…I can’t afford to be the weak link.”

“That’s a lot of pressure,” she mused.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he muttered.

“What’s that?”

“I’m already the weak link. Right? Because of…” He gestured weakly. “Everything.”

“No,” she said immediately, with no hint of a lie. “Having been hurt doesn’t make you a weak link.”

“If I’m distracted more than they are, I’m objectively the weak link,” he argued.

“I’m not so sure about that, but let’s explore the issue of telling them a bit more. What would be so bad about being the weak link for a little bit? Isn’t that why we have partnerships and friendships and relationships? So we can take turns being strong for each other?”

“This isn’t like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” Matt wet his lips.

Because why? Because it happened years ago? Because he went so long _without_ it affecting him, which meant there was no reason for it to affect him so badly now? Because what happened to him was so tied up in his faith, a faith neither of them shared, that he couldn’t trust either of them to even _understand?_

That was all true, to an extent, but what he ended up saying was: “Because it was my fault.”

Dr. Dorner’s whole body softened and she leaned slightly to the side, like she was subconsciously trying to get in Matt’s field of vision, draw his attention. “Why do you say that?”

He couldn’t tell her about Stick, but there was no way to explain it without that context. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It might,” she countered gently. “If your goal is to be less distracted.”

Matt opened his mouth to argue when he realized what she’d actually said. “What difference does that make?”

“Well, when we blame ourselves for things, it’s harder to move on from them. Guilt and shame have a habit of lingering.”

Matt laughed unevenly. “Yeah, you don’t have to explain that to a Catholic.”

She segued. “Tell me more about what being Catholic means to you.”

He raised his eyebrows, surprised she was backing off the issue of blame. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not religious myself, but my understanding is that even people who identify with a religion don’t all relate to that religion the same way. For some, religion is just one of many identities. For others, it’s a primary identity.”

Matt frowned. “I don’t know. I’m just…I’m Catholic. But I’m other things, too.”

“Right. Let me ask you this way: would you say that your religion is more about what you _do_ , or who you _are?_ ”

“Oh. Who I am.” He paused. “I think.” It was a mix, really. But the emphasis on _doing_ seemed to come more from the nuns’ instructions and various sermons. Once he peeled that away, his faith centered more on who he was. Probably. Or, at least, on who God thought he was. Maybe? “I don’t know. I guess I haven’t really thought about it.”

“Is that something you’re interested in figuring out?”

He shook his head. Well, it wasn’t that he _wasn’t_ interested. It was just that he wasn’t interested in paying someone hundreds of dollars to help him do it. “I’d rather we focus on dealing with…my distractions. Please.”

“Okay,” she said. “We can do that. Maybe to start, you can tell me when the distracting thoughts and feelings are most likely to intrude?”

Matt understood that. He felt suddenly like he’d shown up for a test with all the right answers. “You mean triggers,” he said confidently.

“Exactly.” She sounded genuinely pleased. “You’ve already given this some thought?”

“Yeah. They’re important to be aware of because we have clients who can get triggered by parts of the legal process.” It was in everyone’s best interest to help them through it. “We usually tell them to talk to a therapist, if they can,” he added quickly, lest Dr. Dorner felt like he was stepping on her profession’s toes by pretending to do therapy with his clients.

“It sounds like you’re helping your clients in more ways than one. So, what about you? Have you identified some of your own triggers?”

Ah. Right. Matt supposed it made sense that she wanted him to not only understand triggers theoretically, but also be familiar with his own. Unfortunately, he hadn’t exactly given that much thought. Or…any thought. The feeling of showing up prepared for a test vanished as quickly as it had come.

Dr. Dorner apparently read that in his face. “It’s all right. We can work on it together.”

~

Instead of heading home after his session, Matt took a detour to the precinct in response to a text from Brett asking for a word. Matt didn’t even have to wait in the lobby; the desk sergeant sent him straight back to Brett’s personal office.

“Thanks for coming by,” Brett greeted him, and then got straight to what he was obviously more interested in as soon as Matt took a seat in the chair across from the desk. “Have you heard anything from, you know…” Brett lowered his voice. “Daredevil?”

Matt shook his head. Not that he hadn’t been listening. But although Geary’s office and Geary himself smelled of his sins, Matt had so far been unable to catch him in the act, and he hadn’t noticed any unusual police activity at St. Matthew’s.

“Right.” Brett sounded disappointed, and a little surprised.

“What about you?” Matt asked. “Anything?”

“You know I can’t be telling you that.”

Matt raised an eyebrow. Yes, he knew, but that didn’t make this one-sided relationship any easier. The thought of cops who ignored child abuse stalking through Hell’s Kitchen made his fingers itch to throw a punch. “Is Internal Affairs involved, at least?”

“I can’t be telling you that, either.”

Matt squared his jaw. If Brett was the only one who knew about these cops, what if something happened to him? Which, if the cops became aware of his suspicions, wasn’t exactly unthinkable. If these cops had no problem with helping a priest abuse kids, why should they draw the line at shutting Brett’s mouth?

“If Internal Affairs isn’t involved,” Matt began.

“I didn’t say that.”

Yeah, but it didn’t sound like Brett had enough evidence to go up the chain. “If it’s not involved,” Matt repeated, “that means nothing’s being done. And you can’t supervise these cops all the time. Give me their names, and I’ll pass them on to Daredevil. See what evidence he can turn up.” It was a longshot, getting Brett to agree to that, and he knew it.

Sure enough, Brett sighed loudly. “I can’t do that.”

Matt sat there, confused. This couldn’t be it. Brett couldn’t have called him in just to ask if Daredevil had passed along any names. But whatever else Brett wanted to talk about, he seemed reluctant to say it.

Someone walked past Brett’s office outside.

Once they were gone, Brett cleared his throat. “So, uh, Geary’s also been abusing a little girl.”

Matt’s eyes narrowed.

“She wouldn’t talk to me, but I talked to her parents. They said she said the cops were there when it happened a couple times.” His voice darkened. “She said they weren’t just watching.” He slid something across the desk. A notepad, with an address written so firmly into the paper that the indents were easily legible. “Can you read that?”

“Why are you giving me this?” Matt asked carefully.

Brett hesitated. “I thought maybe…we could go at this from another direction. If I’m watching her, the cops will recognize me. They won’t go near her. But I thought…”

“Daredevil.” Matt leaned back in his chair, like distance would help him clear his head. This felt too much like using her as bait. “Couldn’t she describe them?”

“Not well enough.”

“And I’m guessing she didn’t know their names.”

“Nope.”

Matt rubbed at his jaw. “I don’t like this.”

“You think I do?” Brett shot back. “Look, if I could stop them on my own, I would. But I can’t. Not yet. I need to at least know who they are. If Daredevil’s watching over her, he can stop them before they touch her, but at least then we’ll know their identities.”

“And what if it doesn’t work? What if they get to her anyway? You don’t honestly think Daredevil can watch one person twenty-four seven, do you? But if you put a detail on her, at least we know she’d be safe.”

“But we wouldn’t be any closer to catching these cops,” Brett argued. “They’ll keep on hurting other kids if we don’t do something.”

Matt’s heart started pounding. He understood where Brett was coming from, in a sense. And it wasn’t unprecedented for cops to do this kind of thing—albeit usually not with the aid of local vigilantes. But the risk was too high. He shook his head.

“No?” Brett asked.

“I’m not okay with this.”

“I’m not asking you to be okay with this. I’m asking you to ask Daredevil.”

In another context, that would be funny. Matt shook his head again. “I won’t be part of this.”

“Murdock, _nothing will happen_. Daredevil’s almost supernatural, the way he finds people who’re in danger. And if he says no or thinks it won’t work, then I’ll plant a rotation on her and try to find these assholes another way. Let’s just try this first.”

“No.”

Brett drew himself up a little, defensive. “I’m not being reckless here, if that’s what you’re thinking. I just—”

“ _Reckless?_ What does that even mean, Brett? If you knowingly allow even a one percent chance for a little girl to be _raped_ —”

“It’s happening with or without the cops,” Brett snapped. “I’m sorry, but that’s the ugly truth.”

“Doesn’t mean we make it easier!” Matt shot back, voice rising.

Brett spoke over him. “But if we get them, we can get them to flip on the priest and, you know, _actually have a case_.”

“You have a case,” Matt growled. “You have Samuel.”

“Do you know how many cases we’ve had to drop because the victim is a child and they decide at the last minute not to testify? We threw out _three_ just last week. Evil men getting away with all kinds of abuse because testifying is too traumatic for the kid! But if we get these cops, we might not need to put Samuel or any other kids through that.”

Matt wanted to punch something. “Fine,” he said instead, coldly. “You want to go that route, then do it. But I won’t help you.”

“I’ll ask Daredevil myself, then,” Brett threatened.

Matt curled his lip. “You do that.”

Brett fell silent. So did Matt. Matt couldn’t stare him down, but they remained in an uncomfortable standoff nonetheless.

Finally, Brett cleared his throat. “Anyway. This girl’s parents didn’t say anything about Geary threatening them, like you’re always worried about, but they said she told them he has, uh…video. It was implied he’d release it if she ever told anyone what was going on.”

Father Sheridan hadn’t needed to do anything like that to keep Matt from talking. “Warrant?” he suggested.

“I tried. Judge said the uncorroborated word of her parents who haven’t even seen the video doesn’t rise to probable cause. Especially when we don’t even know where the priest keeps the video.”

Matt scowled. “Sill. If we can prove Father Sheridan has—”

“Who?” Brett interrupted.

Matt blinked. “What?”

“You said another name. Sheridan.”

The whole world seemed to tilt on its axis for a second. Matt’s mouth gaped open, ready for a reply he didn’t have.

Brett leaned closer. “Who’s Sheridan? Another priest?”

“No one,” Matt said automatically, too quickly, and immediately wanted to crawl under Brett’s desk before Brett could call him on the obvious lie. “I—I mean, no one important. No one important to the case. It’s just—I don’t know, I have a lot of names, lots of cases, they get…mixed up, sometimes…”

Brett’s silence screamed disbelief.

“Um.” Matt wet his lips. “I was saying. If Father _Geary_ still has that video, and we can get a warrant, we can charge him for possession of child pornography in addition to…everything else.”

“…Right,” Brett said after a beat.

The subsequent silence was loaded with implication, or so it felt to Matt. He had no idea if Brett felt it too, but better safe than sorry. Matt firmly changed the subject. Well, mostly. “Has a prosecutor been assigned?”

Brett took his sweet time responding, like he was still distracted by their previous conversation. “Last I heard,” he began at last, “the case made it through screening. Don’t know if anyone’s been assigned, though.”

“Fair enough.”

Brett didn’t say anything else, and Matt didn’t either. Clearing his throat, Matt stood up. He’d answered Brett’s questions; he had no reason to stay and every reason not to. “Thanks for taking this so seriously.”

“Sure.” Brett seemed to struggle with whether to say something else. All he came up with was a lame, “Good luck on your end.”

“Thanks,” Matt mumbled, and left as fast as he could without raising even more questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Proverbs 24:6 ~ "for by wise guidance you can wage your war, and in abundance of counselors there is victory."
> 
> Long note which you can totally skip if you want:
> 
> I wanted to explain my thoughts on Karedevil/Clairedevil, since the comments reveal a bit of a split circuit there. ;) First, there’s not gonna be a love triangle, so for those of you worried about conflict or tension there, please don’t!
> 
> Now personally, I’m pretty split between Karedevil and Clairedevil myself. I tend to write Karedevil more just because Karen is more automatically caught up in the legal plots, which obviously are my fave. ;) But I really do love Clairedevil and think Clairedevil has just as much a shot of working out as Karedevil. (In other words, both pairs need an equal amount of work (read: a lot), just in different ways.) I have some metas on my tumblr about this, and might do a longer meta that more thoroughly covers both ships at some point, because I think the different barriers facing the two pairings are fascinating.
> 
> As for this fic, it’s gonna stay Karedevil. There are three main reasons for that.
> 
> The first and biggest reason is that Claire is more compartmentalized in Matt’s life. I wanted to explore Matt’s compartmentalization problem by isolating one variable, so to speak. The only thing he’s keeping compartmentalized at this point is his own abuse. This way we can “study” the effects of this one secret more clearly, and see how this one secret, until he’s able to work through it, continues to bleed into the more “integrated” parts of his life. Because Karen is fully integrated into his day life and is also aware of his night life, whereas Claire is mostly regulated to his night life, it made the most sense to me to explore how his secret affects a relationship with Karen.
> 
> The second reason comes down to the difference in Karedevil/Clairedevil dynamics. (Disclaimer: this is just my opinion, and I recognize that it’s super subjective!) So although Clairedevil started out with Matt and Claire as peers, the power balance between them quickly shifted. She saw the parts of him that he was ashamed of pretty much from the beginning. As a result she became his counselor as well as his healer (especially in Season 2). However, we never see the inverse: Matt protects Claire, but he's never in a position to counsel her in return. To me, all of that makes it easier for Matt to be honest with her about what happened to him without worrying (as much) that she'll respect him less or that their dynamic will change. So, naturally, to increase conflict ;) but also to more thoroughly explore Matt’s avoidant behavior, I wanted to pair him with Karen since I thought he would find it more difficult to be honest with her.
> 
> The final reason is simply that I don’t want this fic to be too similar to “Rescue Flare” by Lazarov. It’s an incredible fic that I highly recommend, but it is another case fic paralleling an exploration of Matt’s sexual abuse (from Stick, this time). That fic is tagged Clairedevil, and I don’t want to add yet another similarity between “Rescue Flare” and this fic.
> 
> So, those are my thoughts. I welcome all respectful discussion! (And I promise to write more Clairedevil at some point. I only have two Clairedevil fics, and I need to remedy that.)


	13. Psalm 69:6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for homophobia in the last section. You can stop reading at "When Matt was sixteen" if you want to skip it. Please take care of yourselves!

Matt paced his apartment restlessly, a caged animal. He needed to punch something, but it was too late to go to Fogwell’s and too early to go out in the suit. He should get a hanging punching bag for his apartment. Couldn’t be that hard to install. He could keep it in his bedroom, out of sight of visitors. In the meantime, though, he had no release.

Cops. _Cops_. Cops sitting right there, _watching_ it happen. _Making_ it happen. Cops guaranteeing that this little girl would never go to the police for help again, not even if she needed it. And making it about a thousand times harder for her to ever question whether what was being done to her was wrong.

(If it were so wrong, wouldn’t the cops stop it?)

And Matt was no closer to finding them. After his last conversation with Brett, he’d started dropping by St. Matthew’s again, at random times of day and night, both with the mask and without it. But he hadn’t heard anything suspicious. Those kids needed help, and they should’ve been able to rely on Daredevil for that help, but Daredevil was useless.

In the end, Matt cleared some space in his living room not to meditate but to do pushups until his arms trembled and sweat dripped from his hair. With some of his agitation drained, he rolled over on his back, panting, and told himself that tonight would be different. Tonight, he’d find something.

A loud, distinct _meow_ interrupted his thoughts. Sitting up, Matt cocked his head. The cat was on his roof. More specifically, she was pacing back and forth in front of the door. Huh. He hadn’t even heard her walking around up there.

Without really thinking about it, he got up and took the steps two at a time. As soon as he opened the door, the cat came trotting in, tail waving high, _mewing_ politely as if in thanks.

“Yeah, no problem,” Matt said, grinning as he shut the door. “Make yourself at home.”

She did just that, first circling the edges of the apartment, sniffing thoroughly and occasionally brushing her cheek against various surfaces. Then she jumped high onto the back of the couch and curled up, paws tucked under her chest.

He had nothing to do but kill time until going out tonight, so there was no reason not to sit on the couch close enough to stroke her. No sooner had he settled on the couch then the cat squirmed down onto his lap. She sat facing him, occasionally meowing as he ran his hand over her fur. Pressing into his touch, she kneaded her paws against his stomach. Her claws occasionally snagged his shirt or poked at him, but he barely felt it. He was just glad she was happy to be so close to him.

~

The cat stayed with him all night, and he woke up feeling more refreshed than he had in…well, since this case started. He got out of bed determined to make the most of the day. Starting with actual breakfast, followed by half an hour of meditation. The meditation never turned into prayer, but this was still a vast improvement over recent days of dragging himself to the office first thing in the morning or sleeping through his alarm entirely.

The rest of the day proved good, as well. Foggy and Karen were both in great moods, possibly because Foggy had stopped at Starbucks on the way in to work. Matt didn’t bring up his conversation with Brett. It would just, you know, bring down the mood. Instead, Matt left his door open while he worked, a silent invitation which Foggy and Karen each accepted at various points throughout the day, randomly wandering in to ask his thoughts on something or share a joke.

At the end of the workday, Matt let himself linger in the lobby and banter with them instead of escaping as fast as he could. No one brought up priests or the McCarty case. It felt almost like old times.

As they were all finally leaving, however, his phone started chirping. _“Hannah McCarty. Hannah McCarty. Hannah McCarty.”_

Foggy and Karen both swiveled around towards him. “You gave Hannah your personal number?”

Matt’s calm vanished. “Um…”

“I seriously hope I don’t have to remind you that you can’t date clients, buddy.”

The phone kept chirping her name. “What—no,” Matt stammered. “That’s not—that’s not it. She just—it’s not important.”

As soon as the words were out, he wanted to cringe. How was he _so bad_ at lying?

“Uh-huh,” Foggy said slowly, giving Matt a few seconds to be hopeful that he’d somehow let it drop. Then: “Nope. She’s _our_ client. Spill.”

Given a little more time to think, Matt reminded himself to be as honest as he could. “I ran into them outside of St. Matthew’s. I had the chance to talk to Samuel, and we…connected. Samuel doesn’t have much support in his life right now, so Hannah asked if I’d be willing to, you know, be a resource for him.”

There. That was the truth, if not the whole truth.

“Oh.” Foggy relaxed. “Cool, man.”

The relief Matt felt only made him irritated for having been so anxious in the first place. “Done interrogating me, then?” he snapped, and immediately wished he could take the sharp words back.

Foggy was quiet, like he was giving him a long look. “Yeah,” he said eventually. “Sorry. We’re good.”

Karen, on the other hand, tilted her head, no doubt building questions and hypotheses she planned on interrogating Matt about later.

 _“Voicemail,”_ the phone announced.

Matt pulled the device out of his pocket. “I should really take this.” He leaned in to kiss Karen’s cheek, earning himself a loud snort from Foggy. Then he stepped back, deeper into the lobby, and pressed the redial button. To his relief, Foggy and Karen took the hint. Foggy took the hint, at least, and he pulled Karen along out the front door.

“Why does Samuel wanna talk to Matt and not you?” Karen whispered. “Just because he’s Catholic?”

Foggy shushed her.

Great. Karen with a mystery between her teeth was relentless. Resolving to worry about it later, Matt shoved his free hand into his pocket and pressed the phone to his ear as he waited for Hannah to answer.

 _“Matt!”_ She sounded a bit breathless. _“Hi. Thank you. Sorry. Is this a bad time?”_

Matt frowned. There was something in her voice. “It’s fine. What’s up?”

 _“It’s Samuel.”_ Hannah was suddenly choked up. _“He had some kind of panic attack at school. He won’t tell me what happened.”_

“I’ll talk to him,” Matt promised immediately. “Where can I meet you?”

_“Do you mind coming over? He’s up in his room, I don’t think he wants to go anywhere. I’m sure if I told him it’s you, he’d be willing, but I don’t want him to be more stressed…”_

“No, that’s fine. Just send me the address.”

That was how, about twenty minutes later, Matt was getting out of a cab in a slightly rundown neighborhood overshadowed by large, aged trees, stripped of leaves. Hannah’s house was small. Old. In decent condition, mostly. There were dead flowers out front, killed by the recent frosts. Apparently Hannah hadn’t had time to clear them away.

Hannah opened the door before Matt even knocked. Everything about her seemed much more put-together now, like she’d used the twenty minutes of waiting for Matt to gather herself. Or…maybe knowing Matt was coming had helped? Was it arrogant to think he could make such a difference?

She held the door open for him. “Thank you so much for coming. Can I get you some coffee or anything?”

“Coffee would be great.” He stepped inside. The house was warm. It smelled like dust and perfume and microwaved dinners.

“Samuel’s upstairs, probably listening to music.” Hannah was already flitting down the hall. “I’ll get him in a second. You can throw your coat wherever, by the way, I don’t care.”

“Uh, thanks.” Shedding his coat, he folded it up and draped it over his arm as he followed her down the hall. “This is a nice place. I’d assume.”

It really wasn’t, except that what it lacked in elegance it made up for in…Matt wasn’t sure of the word to describe it. The house was messy, cluttered with Hannah’s books and Samuel’s shoes and toys. Plates and bowls were stacked in the kitchen, half-cleaned, like Hannah had been trying to finish the dishes before Matt got there. He wasn’t sure what it was specifically, but something about the house reminded him of those precious years he’d gotten with Jack. Not like St. Agnes, where everything was clean and crisp and there was nothing unnecessary. Not like college, where Matt’s half of the dorm was all but bare. Not like law school, where Foggy apologetically took up most of the space even though he kept swapping things between the dorm and his home. And definitely not like Matt’s apartment, which served its purpose but did little else.

This felt like a home.

Hannah laughed awkwardly as she punched a button on the coffeemaker. “You can’t mean that.”

Matt offered her a smile. “No, really. I can’t see it, but it feels like you have a good life here.”

“We really do.” She turned around, arms folded over her chest. “You haven’t asked about his father.”

“Should I have?”

“He’s not in the picture.”

“I assumed not.”

“Sorry.” She turned back to the coffeemaker. “I’m used to people getting all in my business, trying to give me advice. And, um…” She sniffed, setting one hand on her hip. “I can’t help wondering if Geary would’ve been able to get to Samuel if Samuel had a father in his life.”

Matt felt a pang deep in his chest. “It’s more complicated than that.”

“Is it?” She turned back around. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

“There are lots of reasons why Geary would do what he did. It’s not just one thing. And it’s not your fault.”

“Isn’t it, though?” Hannah bit down on her lip. “Um. Samuel told me you’re an orphan.”

Matt shifted uncomfortably. He should probably just assume, moving forward, that everything he told Samuel would get passed on to his mother. That was a good thing, really. It meant Samuel trusted Hannah enough to talk to her—about Matt, at least, if not always about himself.

Still. He hadn’t really _anticipated_ that.

“Yes,” he said belatedly. “I was.”

“I’m sorry.” But it sounded almost perfunctory. Not like she didn’t mean it, exactly, but like she was more concerned with getting the answers she needed before Samuel came down to join them. “Do _you_ think it would’ve made a difference? If you’d had parents?”

Matt blinked, raising his eyebrows. “I don’t…I don’t know.” Jack would’ve killed Sheridan for what he did, but that was assuming Jack found out. None of Matt’s reasons for keeping it a secret had anything to do with not having parents.

Was that really true, though? Or would he have told Jack anyway, despite Sheridan’s threats and warnings? Or if he’d known who Maggie was, would he have gone to her in a moment of weakness, when distant threats of damnation couldn’t compare to what he was feeling right then and there?

Maybe just having parents around would’ve made him feel less…alone. Invisible. Having adults he trusted make time for him, make him feel like he mattered…maybe he would’ve seen the cracks in Sheridan’s lies. Maybe he wouldn’t have even believed he was so sinful in the first place. Maybe it would’ve been easier to believe that God really did love him no matter what.

Matt cleared his throat. “I haven’t…I haven’t really thought about it. But it’s complicated. There are…lots of pieces. I don’t know.”

Silence fell between them.

The coffeemaker beeped loudly; they both jumped. “Sorry,” Hannah said quickly, spinning around to take out the pot. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have—I don’t mean to put you on the spot like that. I’m sorry, I know you don’t know me but I swear I’m not usually…like this.”

“It’s fine,” he said quietly. “I get it.” They’d been so focused on Samuel, he’d almost forgotten what Hannah was dealing with. Did _she_ have anyone she could talk to? “For what it’s worth, I—I think you’re doing the right thing. In how you’re taking care of him.”

He smelled a slight hint of salt, but she fought back the tears before they could spill over. “It means a lot to me that you’d say that,” she said thickly. “Um, anyway.” Clearing her throat, she poured a mug of coffee and started to hand it to him, then seemed to remember he was blind. “Oh, I’ve got your coffee. I can put it on the table so you can sit down? It’s about five steps to your right.”

Smiling, he found the table and sat down, accepting the mug she set in front of him. “Thanks. Appreciate it.”

“I’ll go get Samuel, if you want, and let him know you’re here?” At his nod, she turned and hurried upstairs. He heard their low conversation, followed by Samuel jumping up and running back down the stairs, almost missing the last step in his enthusiasm.

His socks slid on the hardwood floor, and he finally skidded to a stop just shy of crashing into the table. “Matt!”

“Hey, Sammy.” Matt stood up, grinning, and let Samuel lean in first before hugging him. “How’s it going? I heard you had a rough day today.”

Samuel kept his face pressed in Matt’s side, nodding.

Matt ruffled his hair the way his dad always used to do with him. “Wanna tell me what happened?”

Samuel pulled back just a little, head turning over his shoulder towards Hannah, but she walked casually into the kitchen and returned to the dirty dishes in the sink. Then she got out her phone, propped it on the counter, and set it to some talk radio station at a low volume, clearly trying to signal very hard that she was _not paying attention_.

He turned back to Matt, voice quiet. “I freaked out at school.”

Matt nodded. “Why? What happened?”

Samuel’s face heated up. “I don’t _know_. It just _happened_. I, like, couldn’t breathe, and I…I kinda forgot where I was,” he finished in a mumble.

Beneath the embarrassment and frustration, there was fear. After all, if Samuel didn’t know why he’d panicked, there was nothing he could do to anticipate future panic attacks. He’d never see them coming. “That’s okay,” Matt said softly. “Maybe we can figure it out why it happened. That way you can try to keep it from happening again, or at least be less surprised if it does happen again. Do you know what a trigger is?”

“Like…?” Samuel raised his hands like he was holding a toy gun, squeezing an imaginary trigger. Matt waited patiently until the kid realized he was miming something Matt couldn’t see. “Oh,” Samuel said. “Um. I mean, like on a gun?”

“Kind of. A gun trigger is what makes the gun fire, right?” That was a vast oversimplification, which Matt was all too aware of given how much time he spent disassembling them, but, then, he was talking to an eleven-year-old. “The thing is, people have triggers too. They make us feel things.”

“I have triggers?” Samuel asked skeptically.

“Probably,” Matt said. Definitely, actually. “Something might’ve happened to you that triggered you. A sound, or a smell, or a conversation. If you can figure out what some of your triggers are, that can help you know when something is likely to be upsetting.”

Of course, it was also possible that Samuel had simply let his mind wander, and it had wandered back to Father Geary, and his thoughts started spiraling, and before he knew what was happening, he was panicking. But Matt hoped helping Samuel identify triggers would make him feel a bit more in-control.

“Can you tell me what happened right before you were upset?” he asked. “Do you remember?”

“It’s all blurry.”

“That’s okay. It might take practice, figuring this out.” Matt wondered briefly about teaching Samuel meditation, but that seemed like overstepping his role. Well, more than he was already. Probably.

He didn’t _know_ , was the problem. There wasn’t a manual about this, and his one class on legal ethics hadn’t exactly covered all the nuances involved right now.

He cleared his throat. “Hey, uh, did you end up getting a therapist?”

To his surprise, Samuel nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, he’s actually kinda cool.”

Matt smiled. “Good, I’m glad. And maybe this is something you can talk to your therapist about. He can help you figure out your triggers and how to deal with them.”

“Huh.” Samuel seemed to think about that. “I haven’t told him what happened, though. With Father Geary. He said it was okay if we got to know each other more first.”

Well, that sounded like a good thing. At least Samuel didn’t feel pushed into talking about what happened.

“But I guess I could tell him about school today,” Samuel went on. “Do you think he’d understand, even if I didn’t tell him…the other stuff?”

“I think he would. Therapists are generally good at understanding.”

“What’s your therapist like?”

“Uh…” Matt really wasn’t prepared for this conversation, and didn’t exactly want to admit that he’d only met with her once. “She’s great,” he said, and hoped Samuel wouldn’t ask any more questions.

To his relief, Samuel simply nodded and started talking about how Hannah promised to take him out for ice cream after all his therapy sessions. Cheap McDonald’s ice cream, Samuel revealed in a whisper so Hannah couldn’t hear, but he didn’t mind because he knew she was trying to make him feel better.

“Hey.” Matt lowered his voice. “Have you told your mom recently how much you appreciate her?”

Samuel glanced over his shoulder. Hannah had finished the dishes and was now mixing what smelled like cookie batter, still apparently focusing very hard on her talk radio show. “I should tell her again,” Samuel said solemnly.

“Yeah.” Matt’s throat tightened for some inexplicable reason. “You’re really lucky to have her.”

Matt hadn’t meant Samuel should tell her _right then_ , but that must be how the kid interpreted it, because the next second he dashed into the kitchen, wrapping his skinny arms around his mouther, startling her so badly she dropped her spoon in the batter. Samuel whispered how much he loved her and she kissed his forehead, and then she invited Matt to stay for cookies.

He felt a bit misplaced, but he stayed.

~

When he finally left Hannah’s place, it was dark and cold. He called a cab, but instead of directing the driver to his apartment, he found himself giving the address to Clinton Church. The drive was short, not giving Matt much time to really figure out what he was trying to prove here, and before he knew it, he was stepping through the front entrance.

It was long after the weekday mass, and the church was quiet. Sister Maggie was in the next building over with the kids, so there was no danger of running into her. Maybe he didn’t have to do or prove anything; maybe it would be enough to sit in one of the pews and simply breathe in the peace of the place.

Matt moved slowly towards the nearest pew when he heard Father Lantom’s footsteps emerging from one of the side rooms. The priest noticed him immediately, heading straight towards Matt.

“Matthew,” he greeted him. “It’s good to see you.”

“Hello, Father.”

“Lattes?” Father Lantom guessed.

Matt wet his lips. “I was actually, uh, hoping I could take confession. It’s been a while.”

“It has,” Father Lantom agreed, and despite how well Matt knew him, Matt couldn’t quite tell if he was chiding or amused. He gestured back towards the confessional ask if telling Matt to lead the way.

So Matt turned, facing the large booth, and felt a flash of frustration as his heartrate sped up ever so slightly. It was the same booth he’d been using with Father Lantom for years now. Sure, it took some time after coming back from law school to first build up the courage again, but then he’d fallen back into the old routine easily enough.

Now, though.

He wasn’t an idiot. He knew why it was harder now, why his body was reacting with fear, why his feet didn’t want to move forward. But he refused— _refused_ —to let Sheridan have this kind of effect on him. Maybe Matt couldn’t stop Sheridan from showing up in his dreams, but that didn’t mean Sheridan got to decide how Matt lived his waking life.

Squaring his jaw and setting his shoulders back, Matt stepped into his side of the booth and firmly closed the door. He propped his cane in the corner. He sat on the bench.

See? This was fine. It felt similar, but it didn’t smell the same, and besides, he could hear the sounds of the city outside the church. At the camp, there’d been nothing but the alien sounds of the forest, so foreign to Matt who’d never left the city until then….

He cleared his throat. Father Lantom was waiting. Bowing his head, Matt crossed himself. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been…several weeks since my last confession. I’ve been, uh…struggling with kindness. Or gentleness.” Or self-control, maybe? “I don’t know.”

“How so?”

“I don’t know. I don’t like the way I’m treating the people I care about.”

Father Lantom paused. When Matt didn’t explain more, he asked, “Do you want to elaborate on that?”

Matt shifted on the seat. “Not really, Father. I just…need to acknowledge that it’s wrong and find forgiveness.”

“Have you apologized and sought reconciliation with these people?”

“…Yes? Somewhat.” He’d apologized to Karen for yelling at her, at least. And things hadn’t been as bad recently, had they?

“Well, that’s good. But you’re not sure you’ve done enough?”

“I don’t know.”

“Have you asked God if you’ve done enough?”

Matt wondered if he was imagining the pointedness in Father Lantom’s tone. “No,” he admitted.

There was an awkward pause.

Matt coughed and moved on. “I am truly sorry for this and all my sins.”

Father Lantom gave a small sigh, so small Matt wouldn’t have heard it but for his senses. “For your penance, I want you to pray to God about the people you’re worried you’ve hurt. Ask Him what else He wants you to do, if anything, to repair those relationships.”

Ha, of course. Matt was caught between a whiplash of appreciation, resentment, distant panic. If Father Lantom was really so worried about Matt’s prayer life, or lack thereof, there was no denying that this was one way to try to help. But all he was really doing was setting Matt up to fail.

_God must flinch when He sees you._

Matt hurried on to the act of contrition, after which Father Lantom prayed a prayer of absolution that Matt wasn’t sure he believed.

~

When Matt was sixteen, a young boy came back to St. Agnes after a foster placement went wrong. Matt knew him from before, enough to notice how differently he was acting now. It was natural to be discouraged whenever the hope of having a family was broken again, but this seemed like more than that. Like it went deeper.

Matt paid more attention. Not only was the boy withdrawn; he was also constantly anxious with a baseline of adrenaline that was far too high. He flinched at the smallest sounds or the slightest movement towards him.

One day, he must’ve fallen asleep in class. Matt, in his own classroom on the floor above, heard the terrified whimpers down below that suddenly turned into a scream as the boy snapped awake. One of the nuns took the boy from the class into an empty room. She was a good nun, one of the few that Matt didn’t have to pretend to like. Sister Mary. Older than the others, but not as stiff. She seemed to genuinely care about the kids.

Matt listened as she soothed the boy and asked what happened. Asked what the nightmare was about. And the story came spilling out: the boy’s new family took him to a new church, and the priest there started pulling him aside. More and more, the priest made sure no one was around when he was with the boy.

Matt listened, heart in his throat, as the boy told Sister Mary what happened. He hadn’t finished talking yet when she recoiled in horror, whispering about how wrong it was, how _evil_. Not even Matt could tell if she was more revolted by the priest or by the boy. He’d heard her rant before about _the homosexuals_ , but he never would’ve thought that _this_ was the same as _that_. Matt was confused. He didn’t know what to call the things he and Father Sheridan had done together, but he knew it wasn’t the kind of sex Sister Mary was usually so upset about.

The boy started crying.

Matt found him, later. He didn’t know what to say, but he sat with him and helped him with all the homework he hadn’t done, staying until well after midnight when the boy said he didn’t want to go to sleep. Sister Maggie found them. She didn’t punish them, but she did send them both to bed.

Alone in his own room, Matt didn’t sleep, either. A few days after that, the boy was sent to another placement. Matt never talked to him again, and never found out what, if anything, happened to his priest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Psalm 69:6 ~ "God of Israel, may those who seek you not be put to shame because of me."


	14. Zechariah 7:9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *crashes into the room* do you guys want an essay on THE LAW?  
> Seriously tho I promise this is important info

Several days after Matt’s confession, he was really trying to make things better. To _be_ better. He couldn’t bring himself to actually pray about his relationships with Foggy and Karen, but he was trying to…be around them more, instead of hiding in his office all day. So that was something. And he was being honest about the injuries he brought in. Mostly, at least. So, you know, that was good. And if either Foggy or Karen brought up the case, he didn’t _immediately_ find an excuse to leave the conversation.

(Really, though, half the time he left for their sake, since sticking around increased the chances exponentially that one of them would say something too flippant or too ignorant or too _accurate_ , and he’d lash out.)

(Triggers, awareness, et cetera.)

Now, for example, he was hanging out with Karen, ostensibly taking just a short break even though he really didn’t care if it went on indefinitely. Karen sat perched on the corner of Matt’s desk while he lounged in his own chair, listening to her read an article the _Bulletin_ published about the corrupt senator she’d been investigating, the one who’d escaped the Fisk sweeps. The article was full of damning facts she’d uncovered, and Matt was more impressed with very word she read.

“You don’t mind not getting mentioned?” he asked when she finished. “You didn’t even get paid.”

“All that matters is that Senator Sandoval can’t keep hurting people,” she said firmly.

Humming, he stood up and leaned over her, catching her chin with the tips of his fingers and tilting her head back to kiss her.

She laughed. “What’s that for?”

“Just…you.”

She kissed him back. “Well, I’m not complaining.”

He settled his hands on her waist, enjoying the way she shivered a little at his touch, but before things could go any further, his phone chimed, letting him know that he had an appointment in five minutes. The churning anxiety Karen had been so generously distracting him from came rushing back.

Breaking the kiss, he rested his forehead against hers. “Sorry.”

“Later,” she promised, sliding a hand up his tie to adjust the knot. “I need to get more work done anyway.”

“So responsible, Miss Page,” he murmured. He stepped aside so she could hop off the desk, then followed her out into the main lobby. While she ducked into her own office, though, he headed for the conference room. They had an appointment with Hannah McCarty. One she’d formally scheduled, with both Matt _and_ Foggy. And she’d asked if she could bring Samuel, but provided no other information.

Foggy came in a few minutes later. “You sure you don’t know what this is about?”

Matt shook his head. Since witnessing Hannah call Matt’s personal number, Foggy remained _convinced_ that Matt knew more about the case than he was letting on. Which…wasn’t untrue. Still, Matt kept saying it wasn’t about the case so much. He said it was more about just…dealing with what happened. He didn’t know if that could really be considered a lie.

“You think something happened with the DA or the cops or something?”

Had Brett told Foggy about his suspicions about his fellow NYPD officers? “Your guess is as good as mine. Wait…” He tilted his head. “They just got dropped off. By a friend, I think. They’re coming in.”

Closing his eyes, Matt set his shoulders back, slipping his hands into his pockets the same way he slipped into his role as a lawyer. Competent, impersonal, wise, reliable. Never mind if the man underneath was a mess.

No one seemed to suspect anything different when Hannah and Samuel joined them in the conference room. Hannah sat down right away, but Samuel stared around the room like he was studying it.

“In like a year, we’ll have elevators,” Foggy told him.

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“So,” Hannah began. “Um, Samuel told me what you said about the civil suit.”

“Mom,” Samuel muttered. “I can speak for myself.”

Despite the situation, Matt’s lips twitched.

Hannah put her hand on his shoulder. “Okay, go ahead and tell them.”

Samuel lifted his chin. “I want to do it the civil way.”

Matt blinked.

Samuel was nervous, but there was no change in his overall rapid heartrate. Well, at least no one was pressuring him into this…although that didn’t mean he had any idea what he was getting into.

To Matt’s relief, Foggy stepped in to slow things down a bit, so Matt didn’t have to. “That’s awesome that you wanna take this on, Samuel,” he began, “but this is a really big decision, and there’s more stuff you and your mom should know before you commit to anything. We can go over more of the details right now if you want, but you don’t have to actually make your decision today, or this week, or even this year. You’ve got plenty of time.”

Hannah got out her trusty notebook and pen. Samuel deflated a little at first, but Matt told him to wait a second, then stole a notepad from Foggy’s desk and handed Samuel one of Matt’s own pens. Even without sight, Matt could tell Samuel lit up, and Hannah murmured a quiet, “Thank you.”

“Okay,” Foggy said, once they were all settled. “So, here’s the thing. The three main differences between a civil suit and a criminal trial are the burden of proof, the damages, and the discovery rules. That means—”

“I already know that,” Samuel interrupted. “Matt told me.”

“He did?” Foggy did a double take in Matt’s direction, then turned back to Samuel with a grin in his voice. “You wanna give this part of the presentation, then?”

“Can I?” Without waiting for an answer, Samuel turned to his mom and rattled off an impressively accurate recounting of the explanation Matt originally gave him. Matt only needed to correct one or two things, and the only thing he wasn’t able to explain was how discovery differed between civil suits and criminal trials.

“Wow,” Foggy said when he was finished. “Do you wanna be a lawyer?”

Samuel ducked his head a little. “Engineer,” he said shyly.

“That’s _great_ ,” Matt said enthusiastically.

Samuel blushed under the attention.

Foggy stepped in, filling in the rest of the gaps. “The other main thing is just that discovery rules are narrower in a criminal case. Which means a civil case gives the defendant access to a lot more information than he’d get if it was just a criminal case. Technically, no one’s supposed to take evidence uncovered in a civil case and try to use it to help their criminal case, and judges are usually on the lookout for that kind of thing if they know the two cases are happening at the same time, but…you never know what’ll happen.”

To be fair, New York’s laws were recently reformed to give defendants access to significantly more information. Names of witnesses, transcripts of testimony police obtained, all of that. But still, civil discovery rules remained much broader.

“Why do we care what Geary can uncover?” Hannah asked.

“Well,” Matt began, “Geary may still try to use the civil case to turn up facts that’ll help his criminal defense. Particularly against the two of you. But you have the truth on your side. The main danger would be if you think he’ll be able to find something that you don’t want coming out at trial.”

“Something embarrassing,” Foggy offered, “or incriminating, or something that makes you seem biased—”

Hannah hissed in irritation. “After what he did to my son, of course I’m _biased_.”

“I mean, like what if they find something that makes you look like you were already biased against the Catholic church before this whole thing started?” Foggy suggested. “Or something that makes you look like you have a grudge against Geary specifically? Then the defense can argue that this case was, you know, made up to get back at them.”

She just shook her head in disgust.

Matt gave her a second to…not calm down, exactly, but refocus, at least. “The most immediate choice in front of you,” he said when she finally sighed and sat back in her chair, “if you do decide to go the civil route, is deciding whether you want it to be concurrent with—at the same time as—the criminal trial. Because the statute of limitations is still years away, you can wait if you want. Have the civil case after you see how the criminal case turns out.”

Foggy didn’t let that idea hang in the air for long. “But it might be a good idea, strategically, to file civilly at the same time. If you’re up for it, obviously.”

“Why would that be a good idea?” Samuel piped up, fidgeting with his pen.

“Couple reasons,” Foggy said promptly. “First, Geary would have to basically choose between standing on his Fifth Amendment right against self-incrimination _or_ defending the civil case. Since our burden as plaintiffs is lower in the civil case, it’s a lot harder for him to win unless he gives his own side of the story, which is hard to do if he doesn’t take the stand and testify.”

“We can also move to exclude previously withheld evidence,” Matt added, “meaning that as soon as he keeps something back, we can ask the judge to stop him from ever talking about that issue again. So his decision to withhold evidence could severely restrict him in terms of what arguments he can make later.”

Foggy jumped back in again. “Plus, even though the jury isn’t _technically_ allowed to assume he’s guilty if he pleads the fifth, but they still might. And even if _they_ don’t, the media might, which could have some pretty big effects down the road.”

Wait. “Samuel?” Matt asked. “You said Father Geary sometimes took you far away, right?”

Samuel nodded.

“Do you know where he took you? Do you know if he ever took you to a different state?”

“I think he took me to New Jersey once,” Samuel said, voice indicating that he was making the kind of face that all New Yorkers are obligated to make when thinking about New Jersey.

“What happened in New Jersey? Can you tell us?”

“Um.” Samuel squeezed his pen tighter. “You know. The bad stuff.”

He was going to have to get used to putting a name to it at some point, but that didn’t need to happen right now. Besides, Matt had gotten what they needed. He looked significantly towards Foggy. “In that case, we might be able to remove the case to federal court, since the actions crossed state lines. And civil suits in federal court generally allow juries to infer guilt if a defendant pleads the Fifth. That puts Geary in a terrible position, because his only other option is to take the stand, but then whatever statements he makes are under oath and can also be used against him in the criminal trial.”

He realized belatedly that what he just said probably went way over Samuel’s head, but Hannah was nodding along.

Good. He needed her to really listen to this next part. Matt folded his hands on the table. “There’s one major reason why you _wouldn’t_ want to have both at the same time: if you wait, then we can subpoena the complete files of the district attorney and the lead detectives. We’ll have a lot more information to work with.”

“Or Geary could win his motion to stay the civil case,” Foggy pointed out. “Which he’ll probably file. Basically, he’s asking the judge to pause the civil case until the criminal trial is done. If the judge grants it, we lose the advantages we get in having both cases go at the same time, and it also stretches out the whole process for the two of you. But it also gives you the chance to subpoena the complete files Matt mentioned.”

“In light of that possibility,” Matt added, “you might think it’s worth it to postpone the civil case. Wait until Samuel’s older to revisit this. Or at least wait until you know what happened with the criminal case.”

And incidentally give their lawyer more time to get his act together, but that was neither here nor there.

Foggy hummed skeptically.

“What’s the likelihood of that?” Hannah demanded.

“Judges have discretion,” Foggy answered. “It usually comes down to whether the defendant has been indicted yet. Courts don’t really want to stay a civil case if the defendant is just the target of an investigation. Which is what Geary is now. So, it’s not really likely that his motion for a stay would be granted.”

“So…we should go ahead and file the civil case, then?” Hannah sounded confused.

They were giving her too much information despite the fact that she was taking notes; Matt knew that. But she needed all of it in order to make a decision. They could walk her through step by step as needed, but first she needed to know what all the options and relevant considerations were.

“You should know…” Matt hesitated. He needed to say this; he _wasn’t_ being influenced by his own issues; he’d be saying this anyway. Or Foggy would. (Except that Foggy seemed to have already decided that he wanted them to file sooner rather than later. Good thing it wasn’t Foggy’s call.) “There’s one major reason we haven’t discussed yet why you wouldn’t want to have a civil case at all.”

Hannah tensed. “What’s that?”

“Samuel’s therapy records. It’ll be discoverable by the defense, meaning they can review the notes from Samuel’s therapist.”

“Isn’t that confidential?”

“Not if we’re suing for emotional harm,” Matt explained. “Which we have to, because we have to allege some kind of harm, but as far as I’m aware, Samuel isn’t experiencing any physical harm any longer…right?”

Samuel nodded nervously.

“So that means the only harm we have left is emotional. To prove that, we need to use Samuel’s therapy records. But…if we put emotional harm at issue, you effectively waive your therapist-client privilege, and the defense will have a right to that evidence.”

“Shit,” Hannah exhaled.

Samuel turned to her, indignant. “How come _you_ get to say it?”

“Shh, Sammy, I don’t. Sorry. Forget you heard that.”

Foggy did a poor job stifling his huff of amusement.

Matt was less amused. He had one more point to make. He took a deep breath. “Related to the issue with therapy…you need to also keep in mind that Samuel will probably have to be deposed. You both might, actually, but especially Samuel.”

“Deposed?” Samuel asked.

“Questioned,” Matt said. “By Foggy and me, but also by Geary’s lawyers. I told you that you might have to talk about what happened to you, remember?” He moved on quickly, not wanting to dwell on that particular conversation. “Foggy and I will be there to try to keep things from getting out of hand, but you need to be aware that depositions are not like testimony at trial. It’s not like what you see on TV, where attorneys can interrupt questioning with objections. In deposition, the other lawyers have much freer reign.”

“Not anything goes,” Foggy hurried to say. “And they still can’t harass you. But…yeah, Matt’s right. It can get pretty ugly.”

“Traumatizing,” Matt said quietly. “It can be traumatizing.” And with that, he pressed his lips together to keep from saying anything. He’d made his point; now it was up to them.

Hannah pushed back her chair so she could fully face her son. “What do you think of all this, honey?”

Samuel didn’t hesitate. “I wanna go the civil way. I want Matt and Foggy to be our lawyers.”

Matt closed his eyes behind his glasses. The kid had guts, but he didn’t even know what he was saying.

“Why’s that?” Foggy asked. “I mean—not why do you want us, although that’s cool, but you don’t _have_ to use us. But, um.” He apparently realized he was rambling. “I just mean, why do you want to sue Geary at all? It’s important that you know the reason.”

“Why?” Samuel asked curiously.

“Because…” Foggy hesitated. “Because the defense will try to come up with their own reason. A reason that makes you look bad.”

“Oh.” Samuel’s voice hardened. “I want Father Geary to have to pay for what he did. And I want him not to be able to do it to anyone else. And…and I want everyone who thinks he’s so great to know he’s _not_.”

Matt open his eyes. That was new.

“Okay, then,” Foggy said, taking over. “Cool. So, Matt and I will get the complaint written to start this whole process. In the meantime, the two of you can help by getting all the evidence you think will be helpful. So, Hannah, we’ll want Samuel’s medical records, any evidence of Samuel’s interactions with Geary, we’ll want the name and number of Samuel’s therapists. Samuel…”

Samuel sat up straighter, apparently glad to have a way to contribute. “Yeah?”

“Have you written stuff down in your journal?”

“Yeah. A little. You want my journal?”

“Yep. We’ll keep it private, but remember, Geary’s lawyers might ask for it. We might have to give them parts of it, at least, but we’ll definitely talk to you before we do anything like that. If you can also get us anything you can think of that’s connected to Geary, that’d be great. Texts, emails, pictures, all of that.”

“Um,” Hannah said. “Geary gave Sammy a…a video. You know. Adult-rated. You’ll want that, right?”

Foggy did a slight double take. “He did? Yeah, _definitely_.”

Matt cleared his throat before Hannah or Samuel could ask why Matt hadn’t told Foggy about that already and hurried on to explain the measures they could put in place for privacy: namely keeping Samuel’s name out of the legal documents or else getting it redacted, and applying for Samuel’s deposition to be preserved via video in case he was unable (or unwilling) to testify at trial.

“Trial,” Hannah murmured under her breath, as if the weight of all of this was really settling in.

It wasn’t. Not even close. But it would.

“Also,” Foggy piped up, “you’ll wanna go through your social media. Both of you. Get rid of anything you think they could use against you. Matt and I can help you decide what you should delete, if you want. Or, honestly, you might wanna just delete all your social media until this is over.”

Hannah sank back in her seat. “I didn’t even think of that.”

Foggy nodded sympathetically. “I know it’s a lot. But we’ll help you through every step.”

Taking a deep breath, Hannah nodded firmly, curls bouncing.

Foggy leaned forward a little. “There’s one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“Do you want to sue only Father Geary, or also St. Matthew’s?”

Matt bit down hard on the inside of his cheek.

Hannah’s breath caught. “We can do that?”

“Yeah, we can try,” Foggy said. “We’ve got a couple theories we can use. Negligent hiring and supervision, for one. And if we can prove that they knew about the abuse and failed to report it, that’s negligence per se. So. Yeah, we’ve got options.”

Hannah and Samuel’s heads turned like they were exchanging a glance. “That seems…intense,” Hannah said tentatively. “Suing the whole church.”

“Just St. Matthew’s,” Matt corrected quietly. “Unless you’d rather sue the whole diocese. But the further you reach, the harder it is to prove that all the relevant actors involved had the requisite knowledge.”

“Don’t think of it as suing,” Foggy added. “You’re holding the church accountable for its actions. Not to mention you’ll probably get more money if we win. Or even just from a settlement. The church almost for sure has deeper pockets than Father Geary. Plus, a lot of churches are setting aside funds for this kind of thing.”

Hannah sounded like she wanted to hit something. “What, like they _expect_ this to keep happening?”

“More like…they expect new cases to keep coming, at least. Maybe for stuff that’s happened in the past. But…also for current stuff, yeah. So…yeah.”

“Of course,” Hannah spat.

Clearing his throat again, Matt steered the conversation on. He briefly explained how a contingency fee worked (which made Hannah’s heart beat faster again; Matt tried not to feel guilty, even though they weren’t asking for anything up front) and reminded them yet again that they didn’t have to make any decisions right now.

“I’m sure I’ll have more questions as we sort through this.” Hannah slid her notebook into her purse and stood up. “Right now, I just feel like I’ve been drinking from a firehose.”

“Totally understandable,” Foggy said, guiding them out into the lobby. Matt followed behind, hands in his pockets.

Pulling Samuel close, Hannah stopped in front of the door and turned back to face Matt and Foggy. “Thank you so much,” she whispered fervently.

Matt pulled up his best gentle yet professional smile. “We’re just happy to help.”

“Samuel, make sure you say thank you.”

Samuel’s smaller voice was excited. “Thanks!”

Matt wondered if he’d still be so excited when Matt and Foggy made him tell his full story, which they’d have to do to build their theory of the case. Or when Matt and Foggy had to get the notes from his therapist. Or when he was deposed by Geary’s attorneys, assuming it got that far.

Maybe it wouldn’t. Maybe they’d send a demand letter, and Geary and St. Matthew’s would roll over. Maybe. Matt just wanted this all to be behind them, but that wasn’t gonna happen any time soon.

~

As Matt was gathering up his stuff at the end of the day, his phone started chirping: _“Maggie, Maggie, Maggie.”_ Matt swiped his thumb across the surface. “Hello?”

 _“Hi, I was wondering if you have dinner plans?”_ She said it all in a rush.

“Oh, uh, no. Not yet.”

_“Can I treat you?”_

He and Foggy got paid in fruit half the time, but he still made more as a lawyer than she did as a nun. “I think it’s supposed to be the other way around.”

_“Is that a yes, then?”_

Clever of her to set him up like that. Holding his phone against his ear with his shoulder, he ran his hand over his watch. It was still early; even with the sun going down sooner, he should have time to grab a bite with her before going out. “Yeah, that…sounds good.”

_“Six o’clock?”_

There was no backing out now. “Um. Okay.”

 _“See you then,”_ she said, and hung up fast, like she thought he’d change his mind if she lingered.

Matt ran his hand through his hair. She was so obviously worried about their relationship; he should try harder to reassure her. But it was messy and tangled and there was too much pressure.

Still, he showed up at the restaurant she’d suggested at six o’clock sharp. It was nice: Mexican place, with music that was a bit too loud but smelling richly of spices. The server placed a couple small bowls of salsa and a basket loaded with warm chips on the table before Matt and Maggie even had time to consult the menus, followed by glasses of water and straws. Matt’s stomach growled. The quality of these chips was lightyears beyond what he could ever find at a store.

Maggie nudged the basket closer to him. “Help yourself.”

“Thanks.” He stuck a few in his mouth, savoring the taste. “These are amazing.”

“Hmm.” She propped her chin on her hand. “You always did like salty things. At least, I was craving salt nonstop when I was pregnant.”

Matt felt a little awkward to be loudly chewing while she was being sentimental, especially because she so rarely was. But choking would be more awkward, so he just kept chewing.

“I’ve missed you,” she said.

He swallowed his mouthful. “I’ve missed you too.” It was true in theory. In reality, though….

“You’ve been busy?”

“Pretty busy, yeah.” Apparently they were _talking_ now, so he resigned himself to not taking any more chips for a while. “It’s looking like we’ll have a new case that’s…pretty intense.”

He didn’t particularly want to talk about it with her. But he couldn’t deny that she might have a unique perspective. And, besides, she’d find out at some point if the case progressed, and then she might have questions as to why he hadn’t brought it up sooner.

“What’s it about? As much as you can tell me, I mean,” she clarified. As a nun, she was well aware of the impact of confidentiality.

Matt picked up his straw, spinning it between his fingers. “A kid was sexually abused by a priest.”

Maggie sunk down in her chair. “Oh.”

“Have you ever, uh…have you ever witnessed anything like that?”

“I’ve only ever been a nun at Clinton Church with Father Lantom.”

“What would you…what would you do if you knew about something like that happening?”

She sat up straighter. “Call the police.”

He raised his eyebrows incredulously. “You’d go to the police first? Not to the church?”

“I’d go to both.”

“What if you went to the church first, and they told you not to go to the police?”

“Then I’d leave that church,” she said without hesitation.

“What about your calling?”

“I’d be a nun in a different church.”

“What if they’re _all_ like this?”

She suddenly sounded worried. “Is this a hypothetical?”

“Sorry.” Matt rubbed at the back of his neck. “I’m just…trying to figure this out.” He paused. “So you’re saying you’ve…you’ve never seen this happen?”

“Father Lantom—”

“I’m not talking about Father Lantom.” There was a strain to his voice that he couldn’t quite get rid of. “Even…even the kids at St. Agnes, it’s not like they _never_ saw any other priests. So you…you never noticed anything suspicious?”

“Should I have?” she asked carefully.

“That’s…that’s not what I’m saying.”

She lowered her voice. “Matthew, with your senses, if you heard anything…”

“I didn’t,” he said flatly. It wasn’t that bad of a lie. It wouldn’t help her to hear about him, and he’d only noticed that one other boy all those years ago, and he didn’t even know his _name_ , let alone where he was now and if he needed help.

That wasn’t the point. He just didn’t understand. He hadn’t actually needed his senses to realize something was wrong with that other boy; he’d simply observed the change in his personality. But it wasn’t like he ever even knew him that well.

Maggie, though. Maggie was Matt’s _mother_.

How could she not have seen?

He reached for his glass, took a sip of water. “What about you? Anything interesting happen this week?”

It was cowardly; he knew she was too afraid to upset him to resist his attempt to change the subject, even if she wanted to. Sure enough, she remained tense, but she started talking about one of the kids hiding a bug collection—a _live_ bug collection—at St. Agnes, and Matt laughed and smiled and asked questions in all the right places, and they didn’t talk about priests again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zechariah 7:9 ~ "This is what the Lord Almighty said: 'Administer true justice; show mercy and compassion to one another.'"


	15. Ephesians 5:11

Matt was in college, in some seminar on campus safety, when it hit him that what happened to him had a name. He dropped the random pencil he'd been fidgeting with at the realization. It rolled off the desk and onto the floor, under someone’s shoes. No one bothered to get it for him and he hadn’t brought anything for actually taking notes, so he sat there for the thirty-six minutes left in the seminar, unable to distract himself. He disappeared into his own head instead.

When the seminar was over, he decided to move on and that was that. So he’d been raped. So what? It happened to a lot of people. And it was worse for many of them. And there was nothing he could do to change what happened. Besides, he was who he was now. It wasn’t like Father Sheridan had some big impact on his life.

For the most part, he was extraordinarily successful at moving on. Every once in a while, he’d hear something or smell something and he’d lose track of where (and when) he was for a second, but that happened less and less as time went on.

Then, after law school, he heard her. The little girl. After beating her piece of shit father into a pulp, he walked away with bloody hands, telling himself that he would’ve done that no matter what. It wasn’t like what happened to him made him more… _empathetic_ , or something. Maybe it made him angrier, though. Made the devil a little harder to control. Ironic. If he needed more proof that nothing Father Sheridan did had been of God, there it was.

~

About a week after meeting with Hannah and Samuel, Hannah reached out to say that she and Samuel had talked, to each other as well as to Samuel’s therapist, and decided they wanted to sue. They wanted both Father Geary and St. Matthew’s held responsible, and they didn’t want this happening to anyone else. Matt left work early the day they got the news, wandering aimlessly through the streets of Hell’s Kitchen, trying to convince himself that this was the way things were supposed to go.

When Foggy called his cell, asking where he’d disappeared to, Matt lied about hearing some crime. Easier to put up with Foggy lecturing him for quote-unquote “Daredeviling” without a mask than to admit what Matt was really doing.

The following week was more or less a blur of research, searching for other evidence of Geary’s sins or the church’s knowledge. Matt slipped in therapy sessions when he could, but it wasn’t a priority compared to the rest of their work. Besides, collecting information through the refreshing braille dots under his fingers, or through his screen reader’s automated voice, made the whole thing feel less real. Distant. The nightmares subsided somewhat until, one morning, Matt woke from a blissfully dreamless sleep and immediately grabbed a pillow to throw over his face as his nose was assaulted by the undeniable stench of cat urine.

Well, it really had to happen at some point. The cat in question was currently sleeping in a ball in the crook of Matt’s knees, and seemed utterly oblivious to the crime she’d committed.

Tentatively moving the pillow, Matt took a breath, trying to locate the source. Oh, it seemed she’d made use of the landing above the stairs, right by the door to the roof. That was actually quite considerate of her. At least she hadn’t gone on his couch or under his bed or somewhere else harder to clean.

Really, Matt tried to convince himself, it wasn’t _awful_. He smelled far worse on the streets at night, or even just walking to work in the morning in the summer. But he was braced for it out in the city, and besides, it was unavoidable there. But this was his _home_. His sanctuary.

And the smell was far from unavoidable.

He sat up, though he took care not to jostle the cat more than necessary, even though she was the source of his current problem. She woke up anyway, and arched her tiny body in a delicious stretch.

Technically, not letting her stay the night anymore was an option. Technically.

But then she got up, padded sleepily across the comforter, climbed into his lap, and curled up again with a quiet purr.

Never mind.

Which left him with…a litter box? No. Just no. If there _was_ a litter box of high enough quality that it could actually hide the scent from him, he was sure it might as well be a Ferrari in terms of affordability.

Ugh.

Whatever; he’d figure it out later. He tapped the clock, realized his alarm was about to go off, and reluctantly lifted the cat off his lap before swinging his legs off the bed. She made an indignant noise, flicking her tail in his face.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, leaving the bedroom. “You don’t get to complain. This place smells terrible because of you.”

He devoted ten solid minutes to cleaning the fairly small pee stain, knowing the smell would persist regardless. It was too cold to air out his apartment, so he’d just have to give it a few days to dissipate. He curled his lip.

The cat had come to sit nearby, tail wrapped around her paws, watching him. She let out a tiny _mew_.

“Your fault,” he reminded her, reaching out to scratch behind her ears nonetheless.

She trilled.

“Whatever. I’ll figure something out.” For now, though, he scooped her up and carried her to the door to the roof, only to stop once he’d opened the door.

It was freezing outside. The cat made a plaintive noise.

Matt sighed loudly.

The cat bumped her nose against his jaw.

“Ugh.” Still holding her, he stepped back into the apartment and closed the door firmly. “You can stay here today, I guess.” If she peed again…well, the place already smelled bad. He set her on the floor, and she immediately bounded off, leaping up onto the couch for a better view of the apartment.

He was going to regret this, but the decision had been made. Besides, it was kind of nice having someone to talk to while he got ready for work.

~

The office heater was working noisily to beat back the cold when he stepped inside. Foggy wasn’t in yet, but Karen was, already hard at work at her desk with a cup of steaming coffee at her side.

He hung up his jacket, set up his laptop in his own office, and then found himself wandering over to her doorway. “Hey, Karen?”

He was going to regret this.

She lifted her head. “Yeah?”

“I was…I was wondering if you ever had a cat.”

She laughed in surprise. “Um, what?”

“I was wondering if you ever had a cat,” he repeated in a mumble.

She got up as if the imminent interrogation required her full attention. “ _Why_ were you wondering that?”

“Because I was wondering the best way to housetrain one.”

“Matt.” Her voice was suddenly deadly. She came around her desk and stopped right in front of him. “Did you get a cat? Did you get a cat and _not tell me?_ ”

“No,” he protested, taking a step back for his own safety. “No, no, I don’t have a cat.”

She put her hands on her hips. “So you’re, what, asking for a friend?”

“If I say yes, will you forget I brought it up?”

“You got a cat!” She flung herself at him like he’d confirmed it, hugging him like acquiring a cat was some epic feat. “When? How? Boy or girl? What’s its name?”

Maybe the cat wasn’t so bad if she was earning him hugs from Karen. “I don’t have cat. It’s just a stray who’s been staying with me. Not—not _staying_ with me, just…hanging around. And it’s a girl. No name.”

“You haven’t named her yet?” Karen huffed in disappointment, then brightened a second later. “It’s okay, I’ll help.”

“I don’t need help with names, I need help with housetraining.”

She sighed. “Litterbox?”

Matt made a face.

“You want her to pee outside?”

“I don’t want her trapped inside anyway,” Matt pointed out. “She’s a stray. She’s used to having all of the city to run around in, I’m not sticking her in my apartment.”

“What if she gets hurt?”

Matt shrugged. “I think she’d rather take the risk. She needs her freedom.”

“Sounds familiar,” Karen commented.

Matt pretended he didn’t know what she meant. “But if she’s going outside anyway, can’t I train her to, you know, _go_ outside?”

“Maybe. Or you could get, like, a cat door installed.”

“A _cat door_.” He hadn’t even thought of that. “Karen, you’re brilliant.”

“I know,” she said smugly. “So, when can I meet her?”

“Oh, uh…” That felt weirdly like a big commitment, letting Karen meet the cat. He just couldn’t tell if that was because it felt like a big step in his relationship with Karen—or with the cat. That sounded frankly insane, though, so he didn’t say it out loud. “I don’t know. She’s a stray, so she comes and goes. I don’t even know when she’ll be around.”

“Guess I’ll just have to camp out at your place indefinitely, then. I can do research from your place just as well as at the office.”

That was Karen: always had a solution to every problem. “Any interesting cases?”

“Actually, I’ve been working on your case. The Catholic case.”

Matt tried not to let his immediate distaste for that phrase show on his face. “Oh,” he said neutrally. “How’s that going?”

“Um…” She sat on the edge of her desk, hands clasped together. “It’s interesting.” Her voice took on that one she’d had during the Frank Castle trial, when she was dying to dig into the corruption in the DA’s office. “Interesting sounds like the wrong word, I know. I mean, this stuff we’re talking about is _evil_. But we can’t really help people unless we confront it, you know? So I’m just trying to focus on that. And with that perspective, it’s all just so…like I said, _interesting_. Like, all the levels of manipulation involved, all the cover-ups…”

Matt blinked. “Okay, but what did you find?”

“This isn’t the first time.”

“What?”

“For Father Geary. This isn’t the first time he’s done this.”

Matt’s mouth went dry. “What?” He knew about that other little girl Brett had discovered, but what was _Karen_ talking about?

“I was able to figure out what other churches he’s been at. Not that any of those priests would talk to me, but I found a couple mentions of him on social media—”

“What? How?”

“You know, people talking about a great sermon by him, or being sad that he’s going to another church, that kind of thing. So, anyway, I found those churches, and obviously the priests wouldn’t tell me anything, if they even _knew_ anything, but I was able to find some of the families who knew him. Enough to hear rumors, at least. Nothing too substantial until a few days ago.”

“What happened last week?”

“Someone called _me_. A young woman. Said she’d heard I was asking around, and apparently looked me up, read about Fisk and everything. So she figured I could be trusted and asked if we could talk.”

“About what?” he asked, not sure that he actually wanted to hear the answer.

“About what she experienced!” Karen grabbed a notebook from her desk, flipping it open. “This woman, she was abused by a priest, too. For, like, _years_. Um…four years, actually, from when she was ten to fourteen. Anyway, turns out it was Father Geary who did it! I don’t know if she’d be willing to come forward and _testify_ or anything, but now we know there must be more witnesses out there. And who knows? Maybe I can convince her to share her story as part of the case. What do you think?”

Matt felt…weird. In front of him, Karen was a swirl of emotions. Anger over what Father Geary did, of course, but also excitement over having found a witness and triumph over finding more proof of Father Geary’s crimes.

It was just…it wasn’t personal for her. At all. And he almost wished he could tell her to stay out of it. Like she wasn’t qualified to talk about it. Like she couldn’t care the right way. Like she was skipping over all the context just to get at the part that mattered to her.

“Matt?” she asked.

He’d been standing there silently for too long. “Uh, no, yeah, that’s great.” He forced a smile. Tried to, anyway. “If she’d be willing to testify, that’d be…really great.”

“And guess what?” Karen lowered the notebook, dark satisfaction tinging her voice. “This woman, she told someone a few years later, when she was older. They went up the chain to the bishop of the diocese, told him what happened. Which, as far as I can tell, is right when Father Geary was transferred to St. Matthew’s.”

Oh.

“Which means St. Matthew’s should’ve known exactly what they were getting! Right? So, if you’re suing both Geary _and_ the church…”

Yeah. Yeah, that would be pretty powerful evidence. Assuming this woman was willing to testify, which sounded like far from a sure thing. Understandably.

Very understandably.

“Hey.” Karen reached out, touched his wrist. “You okay?”

He quickly restructured his expression, forcing it into a smile. “Yeah. Just processing. That’s a lot of information.”

“Will it help the case?”

“Don’t see why it wouldn’t.” His voice came out evenly enough, but he caught himself fidgeting and made himself stop.

She slid off the desk and stepped closer, still touching his wrist, running her thumb over his skin. Her voice softened. “Look, Matt, I know this stuff is pretty heavy. And you’re _swimming_ in it with this case. I should’ve asked instead of dumping all of that on you.”

“What? No.” He shook his head. “If you find something, I want to know.”

“Okay, I just…figure you could use a break from thinking about this, sometimes.”

“I take breaks.”

“ _Not_ to go out and punch people.”

“Well, I can think of some other ways to take a break that are much more pleasant.” Her temperature rose somewhat at the new tone of his voice, and he allowed himself to feel a little bit smug at her reaction as he leaned in and kissed her.

“Mmm.” She hummed against his mouth. “Point taken, counselor.” Her arms came up, twining around the back of his neck, fingers running through his hair.

This was lightyears better than their previous conversation. He pressed in, backing her up until she hit her desk. She wasted no time in leveraging herself up onto its surface, still kissing him, apparently not even noticing when she knocked a small stack of papers off. They fluttered to the ground as he slipped his fingers under the hem of her blouse, wanting to feel the warmth of her skin.

She squeaked in surprise, then sighed as his hand spanned across her waist. She tilted her head, deepening the kiss, and he let himself disappear into the scents and sounds and taste and _feel_ of her.

Until Foggy’s footsteps came plodding down the hall outside the lobby. Matt jerked back, pulling his hands away. “F-Foggy,” he stammered out as an explanation.

“Shit,” Karen muttered, smoothing down her shirt. “Spectacular timing. Hey—” She caught his hand before he could escape into his own office, tilting her head up at him. “Tomorrow night? You. Me. Alone. Sound good?”

 _His_ heart started beating faster at that. “Sounds great. Wait, no, I think we’re trying to file the complaint tomorrow. We might have to stay late.” Or he just wouldn’t be in a very romantic mood. “Night after?”

“Good.” She leaned in, gave him a last little kiss, then nudged him out of the office. “Go be professional.”

~

He had his fourth appointment with Dr. Dorner after work, and he was surprised to find that he wasn’t actually dreading it. Her office was soothing. It was nice to sit down there, insulated from the rest of the world, with nothing to worry about except answering her questions and learning. Plus, he got the odd sense that she actually respected him even though he was there for her help and not the other way around. True, the amount of scrutiny he received in her office was still unnerving. Having anyone’s focus entirely on him had been unnerving ever since he first mastered disappearing into a crowd by the age of ten. But all in all, it wasn’t _that_ bad.

“It wasn’t that bad,” he insisted for what must be the hundredth time already.

Dr. Dorner was prodding at his history with Father Sheridan again. She seemed obsessed not with helping him move on but with questioning him about his experience from a thousand different angles. Usually she responded to his argument that it wasn’t bad enough to justify this much attention by pivoting to a new angle rather than addressing his statement directly, but this time she sat back in her chair.

“Not that bad,” she repeated. “Can you explain that?”

Seemed pretty self-explanatory to Matt. Still, he had to give her something if only to get her to stop digging. He fell back on the old mantra. “My dad always used to say, it’s not about how you hit the mat, it’s about how you get up. We always get back up.”

“I can see that. Does getting up, then, mean you weren’t hit that hard in the first place? Or do you get back up no matter how hard you got hit?”

Damnit. He still forgot sometimes that she wasn’t like Foggy and Karen; giving her anything meant she’d come back with a new question based on whatever he’d said. “Look, I’m not saying it wasn’t bad. I know it was bad. I’m just saying, the way it’s affecting me now, all these years later, is extreme because it wasn’t _that_ bad. That’s all.”

Dr. Dorner paused, gathering her words or her patience or maybe both. Finally, she said, very slowly, “Matt…you were raped. Repeatedly. You’re a lawyer, you _know_ that’s a crime. A violent crime.”

“Not as violent as it could’ve been,” Matt muttered.

“What do you mean?”

He fidgeted. He hadn’t even meant to say that. It was just…compared to some of what he witnessed late at night, Sheridan had been almost…gentle?

That wasn’t the right way to describe it. Matt’s lips pursed in disgust with himself. “I just mean…other people have it worse.”

“It’s not an either-or, either other people go through something bad or you do.”

He shrugged.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.” It was what he was paying her for, he supposed.

“You seem pretty _resistant_ to the idea that what happened to you was bad—”

“No, I know it was bad. It just wasn’t _that_ bad.”

“Scale of one to ten?” she suggested.

He thought about it. “Five?”

Silence. Dr. Dorner wasn’t even moving.

Matt fidgeted again. “You’re staring at me.”

“I’m…” She hesitated, then tucked her hair back behind her ears. “You surprised me. Um. Five. Okay. What…what would be a ten?”

The Hand’s poisoned arrow, probably. Not that he could say that. He went with something less painful (probably about an eight, really) but more common. “Broken ribs, maybe.”

“You’ve had broken ribs?”

“Uh, once. It was a long time ago, though,” he lied, hoping she wouldn’t ask questions.

To his relief, she didn’t press. Well, not about the broken ribs. “So, what makes the difference between something like a ten and something like a five?”

Why was that even a question? “Pain.”

“Physical pain, you mean.”

He frowned. “Right.”

She hummed. “Okay, so…what if I asked you to make a scale for emotional pain?”

The memory flashed across his mind. Shoving past cops and running into an alley, dropping his cane and hitting his knees next to a still-cooling body. Touching his hands to the blood where his dad’s face should’ve been.

Matt blinked hard. “That’s, uh…” He didn’t have an ending to the sentence, didn’t have a way to say, _please don’t ask me this_ , without sounding pathetic.

“Harder?” she asked softly.

He shrugged in lieu of saying, _do I have to?_

“Is it harder because emotional pain is more intense? Harder to deal with?”

She was leading him like a lawyer with a witness and he knew it, but damnit, she was right. He had no problem comparing various physical injuries; in fact, there was a certain amount of pride in thinking about how much he could endure if he had to.

This other shit, though.

Her voice was still soft. “The reason I bring this up, Matt, is because emotional pain often _is_ harder to deal with. Someone breaking our trust, someone making us feel like a bad person, someone telling us— _showing_ us—we have no right to our own bodies…that’s real pain and it shouldn’t be discounted any more than you’d discount a broken rib.”

Claire might be of the opinion that he would discount a broken rib, actually.

Dr. Dorner’s head tilted. “What do you think?”

He rubbed self-consciously at the back of his neck. “I mean, what you’re saying is true, I guess. It’s just…” He trailed off uncertainly.

“You seem pretty resistant to the idea that what happened to you was, you know, more than a five. And I’m just wondering why.” She paused. “What would it mean for you if you saw what Sheridan did to you as something worse? Would that change anything for you?”

Everything.

Dr. Dorner waited patiently, not saying anything, not feeding him any answers or giving him an out.

Leaving him with no choice but to come up with an answer on his own. “I guess…if it was that bad…that means I, uh…” He frowned, trying to figure it out for himself. “It’s worse because I let it happen.”

Instead of arguing about whether he let it happen, which was kind of what he expected, she just nodded (then remembered he couldn’t see it, and let out an encouraging hum instead). And she waited.

It wasn’t a bad tactic. He used it himself with potential clients and witnesses. Someone’s first explanation for something might not be a lie per se, but it was more likely to be something like a…a cliché. Something they’d borrowed from someone else because it fit well enough. But it wasn’t the raw, uncomfortable honesty that actually originated with them.

Matt wasn’t sure whether he wished she’d just taken his first answer. When he thought about it more, another thought rose to the surface. “If it was that bad, that means I…I have a problem.”

“What do you mean, a problem?”

“Something would be wrong with me.”

“Wrong? You didn’t do anything.”

He ignored that, focusing on figuring out how to word what he wanted to say. “When I lost my sight,” he began at last, “that was a big thing that affected me. Still affects me. Same with…with when I lost my dad. And…other things. They’re all these big things that affect me. I’m not the same as I would’ve been if those things hadn’t happened. You know?”

She hummed again, prompting him to keep going.

He took a deep breath. “So…if this is a big thing, that means it must still be affecting me.” He winced. “I mean, I know it’s affecting me. Obviously. That’s why I came to you. But if it’s…if it’s a big thing, it might have always affected me, even when I didn’t know it. And it might never stop. Which means…which means there’s just _one more thing_ changing me from…from who I’d be naturally. So…so…so at some point, I have to ask…” His throat tightened up; his voice cracked. “Who even am I?”

She didn’t answer the question. She didn’t even try. “So you’re saying, it’s easier to see what your priest did to you as not that bad because otherwise it would be…one more thing making it harder to find your own identity?”

He lowered his gaze. “Basically. I guess.”

“That makes sense, Matt.”

He lifted his head tentatively. “It does?”

“It makes _complete_ sense. You’re clearly very independent, for one thing. And one thing you share with your father is that both of you can bounce back, no matter what hits you. So of course the thought of being influenced by anything feels like an affront to your sense of self.”

He nodded, relieved despite himself. She was _getting_ it. And she didn’t even know about Stick.

Her breathing hitched a couple times. She wanted to say something, but she was holding herself back. Giving him time to process. It was sweet and stifling at the same time.

Finally, he just raised his eyebrows at her. He’d rather she get on with it.

She took his signal. “We can’t change what happened to you. But would you like to talk about how to make it less able to affect you?”

What else was he paying her for? “I’ll take whatever tricks you’ve got.”

“Good.” There was a small smile in her voice. “You know, it’s a lot easier for things to influence us when we’re not aware of them. For example, are you familiar with implicit biases and implicit bias training?”

He nodded. It had come up several times in law school, given the many ways that implicit biases could affect the judgment of a judge or jury. Or of a lawyer.

“What would you say most implicit bias trainings involve?”

“Identifying the bias and figuring out how to reject it,” Matt answered promptly.

“Right. That’s actually a concept rooted in cognitive-behavioral therapy. It’s impossible to reject something if you don’t know it’s there in the first place. Instead, you have to bring it to the surface so you can analyze it objectively.” She paused. “But what if someone kept insisting that they’re _not_ biased, or that their bias isn’t that big of a deal? Do you think they’d ever be able to move beyond the bias, or would the bias instead constantly affect them?”

Matt lowered his head. “Okay, I get the point.”

“I’m not saying it’s easy. And I’m definitely not saying you need to cry and break down just to prove that you really feel the weight of what happened to you,” she added. “I’m just saying, maybe we can start looking at it more…objectively. Without downplaying or shying away. Do you think you can do that?”

Not really. But apparently he had to try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ephesians 5:11 ~ "Take no part in the unfruitful works of darkness, but instead expose them."
> 
> In other news, the therapy scene was one of those scenes where I didn't really plan the details of the conversation, so I was a bit surprised when Matt started saying all that.


	16. Luke 19:41

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friendly reminder that Matt is not exactly a reliable narrator.

Look at it objectively.

The problem was, Matt didn’t know _how_. What was he supposed to do, just sit there and think? Try to relive the memories? Wallow? Wouldn’t that just make things worse until he couldn’t have a single conversation with a stranger without getting pulled back to what happened? He already felt enough like a bomb about to go off.

He should’ve gotten more clarification in that session. Then again, what if what he was afraid of was in fact exactly what she expected of him? What if she thought the only way to move through this was to first drown himself in the very things he was trying so hard to escape?

If that was true, he’d rather not know. If that was the only way forward, he’d just have to resign himself to not moving forward at all. Not yet. He had too much to do. Maybe he was just slapping a band aid over a bullet wound, but better that than having open heart surgery in the middle of a damn warzone.

Next to someone who was far more injured.

Samuel got off school early today and Hannah brought him straight to the office, ready to officially tell his whole story. As ready as he could be, anyway. Matt and Foggy would be gentle, but they couldn’t afford to leave any stones unturned. They needed to know everything Samuel could remember; and if he couldn’t remember something, they needed to know how to find out what that something was. Frankly, it would be a painful conversation for everyone. But especially for Samuel.

Foggy held the door to the conference room open while Samuel walked inside and took a seat, significantly more subdued than normal. Matt hesitated, then turned towards Hannah who was hovering directly behind him. “I, uh…I have to ask you to stay outside.”

Hannah’s breathing hitched. “What?”

“It’s standard,” Matt said quietly. “Having a parent in the room can effect what a kid says. They might hold things back for fear of getting in trouble or otherwise upsetting the parent. It’s nothing personal.”

She folded her arms tightly over her chest. “Feels pretty personal.”

“I’m sorry,” Matt said. But he did not relent.

Hannah let out a sharp burst of breath. “Fine. Okay. I get it. Just…” She bit her lip. “Take care of him.”

Matt risked putting a hand on her shoulder, which seemed like a good call when she leaned a little into his touch. “Of course.” He tried to sound reassuring.

She retreated to one of their chairs in the lobby, sitting down with her arms and legs crossed tightly. Matt opened his mouth, but couldn’t think of anything else to say to her. Shaking his head, he stepped into the conference room and closed the door.

Samuel’s heart beat a little faster.

Foggy hit a button on their recording device and said the date, the time, and the names of everyone present.

Matt folded his hands on the table. “Okay, Samuel. Tell us from beginning to end, as much as you can remember. But if you need to take a break, just let us know.”

Samuel took a shallow breath. “Okay.”

And the story came out.

~

It took four hours and numerous breaks. During one break about halfway through, Matt would’ve bet money on Samuel not coming back. But he did.

And the part of Matt that wasn’t silently screaming couldn’t help being impressed. Child witnesses rarely told a story in strict chronological order, and that was doubly true of witnesses recounting a traumatic experience. That was certainly true of Samuel. However, he had no real difficulty providing clarity whenever Matt or Foggy asked for it.

There were a couple weaknesses. Though Samuel remembered some parts of the abuse in vivid detail, other parts were blurrier. Though sometimes he could describe what the room looked like down to the last square inch, sometimes all he could say was that the room “had too many windows” or was “dusty.” Or while he might remember how he’d gotten somewhere, he didn’t always remember how he got from that place back home. These were no doubt areas Geary’s defense attorneys would zero in on.

But, really, Matt and Foggy had worked with adults who only witnessed a robbery where no one was even hurt who couldn’t tell the story as clearly as Samuel told his. Matt wasn’t sure why. The only explanation he could think of was the fact that, according to some of the research he’d done, children were likely to cope better with abuse when the first people they told believed them.

He made a mental note to tell Hannah. To thank her.

For his own sake, though, hearing the story was…hard. He caught himself digging his fingers into the fabric of his pants under the table. At first, he remembered Dr. Dorner’s instructions and told himself this was good: he was acknowledging how bad it was, or whatever. Then he was immediately disgusted for thinking about himself at all while Samuel was talking about the worst thing that ever happened to him. Matt shoved all his own issues to the back of his mind. Dr. Dorner could frown at him all she wanted, but he was a lawyer. An advocate. He had a job to do.

~

That was fine until that night, when Matt burst awake from a nightmare so intense, so _real_ , that when he first opened his eyes he couldn’t even move. Flat on his back, muscles locked, paralyzed. His body opting not for fight or even flight but for _freeze_.

Don’t move and he won’t see you. Don’t move and, if he does, it’ll be over faster.

Gradually, his breathing slowed down. His muscles unlocked. He sunk back against his pillow, swallowing hard against the tightness in his throat.

Not real. Just a dream.

What time was it? He tapped the clock. _Four thirty-four a-m._

Great. He didn’t want to fall asleep again, couldn’t risk another nightmare, assuming sleep was even possible at this point.

Rolling out of bed, he padded barefoot into the kitchen for water, limping a little from some hard hits taken at the start of the night. Anger lashed through him when he reached out to open the fridge only to realize his hand was shaking. Curling both hands into fists, he shoved them into the pockets of his sweats.

The nightmares hadn’t been this bad before the case. They hadn’t been this bad in _years_. Like, yeah, it took a couple months (seven; seven months) for them to fade after…after it all happened. And then they came back for a week or so on the anniversary for a while, until eventually they just…stopped.

It was this case. And therapy? Therapy was not helping. Dr. Dorner trying to get him to admit that it really was traumatic…she could say all she wanted about how that would help him move on eventually, but what about _now?_ Damn it, he had a job to do.

He was so tired.

He couldn’t keep going like this.

~

He felt like a zombie as he his feet into work. He mumbled a greeting to Foggy and detoured into the kitchen for coffee before making his way into the office, where at least it was relatively quiet. He finished the first cup of coffee within half an hour and went back for more. He was no longer sluggish by lunchtime, but the caffeine made him jittery and the taste of coffee lingered on the back of his tongue.

At least he was being somewhat productive. He took extensive notes as he researched cases, not entirely confident that he’d remember any of what he was reading. Distantly, he heard the front door to their office open and shut, but he’d _just_ managed to really settle into a researching groove, so he didn’t allow himself to figure out who’d come or left.

Then he heard Karen’s calling softly from the lobby: “Matt? Foggy? Could you come meet someone?”

Frowning, Matt paused the voice in his ear and slipped his glasses back on before getting up, wincing at the soreness in his muscles and joints from last night. He grabbed his cane from the corner of the office and emerged in the lobby a few seconds after Foggy.

Karen was standing next to a woman about their age, wearing a dress and thick tights under her heavy coat and holding the strap of her bag tightly across her chest. She was small, at least half a foot shorter than Karen, but athletic, and her posture was that of a person who was used to being beautiful.

Karen put her hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Guys, this is Rachel. She’s the one who reached out to me about…about Father Geary.”

“Hi,” Rachel said nervously.

Matt zeroed in on her. He’d met plenty of people, both in law and at night, who’d experienced sexual assault. But he’d never met someone his own age who’d experienced sexual abuse by a priest.

She seemed…fine, really. A bit anxious about this meeting, but fine other than that. She’d gone out for lunch earlier, some fast-food place, and beneath that she smelled faintly of…baby formula?

She had a kid. And a delicate ring sat on her left ring finger. She had a kid and she was married.

Matt wondered if it was immediately obvious to her that his life was nowhere near so put together.

Foggy stepped forward. “Hi, Rachel. My name’s Foggy Nelson, and this is my partner, Matt Murdock. I guess you know we’re representing one of Geary’s victims.”

Aside from the slightest increase of tension in her muscles, she did not react at all to the word _victim_. “Yes,” she said, voice lightly accented. Eastern European, maybe? “That’s why I wanted to talk to Ms. Page. And now, I guess…you.”

“We’d be happy to hear your story. Are you interested in representation?”

“…Maybe?” Rachel shifted her weight uneasily. “I don’t know.”

“That’s okay,” Foggy assured her. “I just ask because you’re protected by confidentiality if you’re a prospective client.”

“You mean privilege?” There was a slight smile to her voice. “I do watch TV.”

“Confidentiality,” Matt reiterated. “Privilege is narrower. Its scope is purely evidentiary, meaning it only applies in a formal legal proceeding. Confidentiality precludes us from sharing any details about you, regardless of whether we’re in a formal proceeding or not, and like Foggy said, it kicks in as soon as you become a prospective client. Even if you never actually hire us.”

“Oh. Okay.” She adjusted the strap of her bag. “That’s good. Thanks.”

“Conference room?” Foggy suggested, gesturing. “We can get you tea or coffee or, um…” He lowered his voice in a whisper. “Matt, what else do we have?”

“Bagels,” Matt offered.

Rachel made a noise, a laugh quickly doused. “Coffee would be nice.”

“I’ll make it,” Matt said immediately. He normally did; it was undisputed that he made the best coffee, and besides, he and Foggy both knew that he’d overhear anything Rachel said. Today he was particularly glad for the ready-made excuse to busy himself with something until the interview was well underway. He ducked into the kitchen while Foggy led Rachel into the conference room. Karen followed him long enough to steal a quick kiss before dashing off, claiming she had a meeting of her own to attend.

Matt kept half his attention on the conference room while he fussed with the coffee maker. Rachel was sitting down now, hands clasped in her lap. Foggy sat across from her, holding a pen loosely in his right hand. “Do you mind if we record this?” he asked.

“Um, I’d rather you didn’t.”

Foggy sounded surprised. “Oh. Sure. No problem.”

“Sorry,” she said—oddly, without a hint of guilt. “It’s just…I’m fine talking about it with, like, my husband and a few close friends, but other than that…”

“No, I get it,” Foggy said quickly.

He didn’t.

Foggy cleared his throat. “You can just, um, start wherever you feel comfortable.”

“Okay. Um.” Rachel took a deep breath. “My parents weren’t Catholic. But I had this friend, and she invited me to some church stuff. I converted when I was ten. My parents didn’t believe in any of it. They kind of, um…kind of bashed it, actually. But they still let me go with my friend.”

Matt had stalled enough. He poured Rachel a mug of coffee and joined the others in the conference room.

“Thanks,” she said as he set the mug down in front of her, wrapping both hands around the warm ceramic. “So, yeah. Um. I was…twelve, I think, when Father Geary became the priest at St. Mark’s. I noticed he noticed me right away. Like, lingering looks and all that, you know? But I got it all the time from men, even as a little girl. So I guess I was just kinda…used to it.”

“What year was that?” Foggy asked. “The year that Father Geary came there, I mean.”

“Nineteen ninety-eight. It was spring. Right around Easter. I remember because I was so excited to wear my Easter dress, but…the way he looked at me made me wish I hadn’t.”

Matt kept his hands under the table where she couldn’t see his fingers curling into fists.

“So, um, eventually he pulled me aside. Started asking about how I was new to the faith, about what I thought about what I was learning…I’d never had a grown man seem so genuinely interested in my opinions and questions, you know? He said he really enjoyed talking to me, and said he hoped I felt the same, and invited me to come to confession. I didn’t see why not, so I started going.”

“Was it in the confessional?” Matt asked softly.

Foggy’s head tilted like he was glancing at Matt.

“No,” Rachel said clearly. “Well—it started there, I guess. But then he asked me to meet him in his office. So…”

“Did he ever take you anywhere outside the church?”

She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “Yeah. Sometimes it was just out for lunch or something. He brought my friend once in a while, actually, but he made it pretty clear he was more interested in me. The…the first time he really did anything was at a movie theater, actually. I still remember smelling all that greasy popcorn, you know? Funny what sticks with you…” She trailed off, then gave her head a small shake. “Anyway. Um, it was all dark and he…he touched my thigh. Up high. We were in public, so I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to go back to confession after that.” She paused. “But I did.”

“Why?” Foggy asked gently.

“He told me I needed to,” she said simply. “He told me I had to go at least once a week because if I died with unconfessed sin, I’d go to Hell. And I couldn’t even ask my parents if it was true, since I knew they’d just say Hell wasn’t real and…I’d end up feeling stupid.” She hesitated. “They still don’t know, by the way. I don’t want to give them more ammunition to use against my faith.”

“…Right,” Foggy said belatedly. Matt knew for a fact that Foggy didn’t believe in Heaven or Hell or anything in particular, but even though Foggy had no problem teasing Matt about faith, he never disparaged it. Matt hoped he knew how much he appreciated that.

“After that, things, you know, um…escalated. And it was weird because, after a while…I didn’t hate it anymore. I mean, I _did_ , deep down, but on the surface…it was like I liked it.” She shook her head at the exact same time. “No, I _didn’t_ , but…” She took a deep breath. “It wasn’t just sex, you know? It was giving me gifts and having long conversations about whatever I wanted to talk about. No one else did that with me. I, um…I fell in love with him.” Heat rose on her cheeks. “I mean, no, I _didn’t_. I know what true love looks like, now.” She touched the wedding ring on her finger. “But I was so young, and he was…powerful and mysterious and spiritual and…and _attentive_ , and just…everything I’d never seen before in a man.”

Foggy set his pencil down. “Wait a second.”

Matt tensed. He knew Foggy well enough to know when the other man felt confused, but he couldn’t let Foggy voice the confusion. Confusion sounded like judgement. “I get it,” Matt said instead, softly.

Rachel gave a quiet scoff. Dismissive and a little offended. “No, you don’t.”

For an instant, Matt’s lips parted. Then he pressed them together and lowered his head in a silent apology.

“It’s just…” Rachel hesitated. “I’ve heard stories. Read stuff, you know? Since figuring out what happened. Trying to understand. And it seems pretty common for it to get…rough. But it wasn’t like that for me. He was…almost gentle, if that makes sense? I don’t know why he was different with me. I try not to think about it.”

Matt felt the exact same.

“Did you tell anyone?” Foggy asked. “Not your parents, but anyone?”

Matt winced internally.

“Not at that time,” Rachel said, voice suddenly cool. “I wouldn’t have known what to tell. And you wouldn’t have either, just so you know.”

“Sorry, um,” Foggy stammered. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

She ignored that. “My family moved to another city. That’s why the abuse stopped. I still didn’t say anything. Then, when I was eighteen, I was talking to my friend. And the story just…came out. I wasn’t trying to get Geary in trouble or anything, even then. Everything with him was still too complicated. I think I just…” Her voice faded somewhat. “I was tired of carrying it alone.”

Matt closed his eyes.

“There comes a point,” she went on softly, “where it felt like I was lying. To everyone. All the people who though they knew me. But did they really? If they didn’t know this?”

Matt wanted to blurt out that of _course_ they did. No one was defined by something like this. There were a hundred other things that were more important to who she was. Her personality, the things she loved, the things she hated, the things she stood for. _That_ was what people needed to know to know her. Not…not _this_.

He couldn’t say that. He couldn’t say any of that.

Besides, Rachel was already moving on. “Anyway, I told my friend. And she told her parents. And they said they were gonna talk to the bishop. Next thing I heard, Father Geary wasn’t at that church anymore. He’d been transferred.”

“Do you know what exactly your friend’s parents told the bishop?” Foggy asked.

“Everything I told her, as far as I know. So…everything that Geary did.”

“Was it just the bishop? Do you know if they told anyone else?”

She shook her head. “I just know they talked to the bishop.”

“Do you know if there’s any record of the conversation? Emails, or…?”

Foggy’s questions were coming a bit too fast; Rachel was pulling back slightly, physically leaning away. “I don’t know. I’d have to ask.”

Matt stepped in but deliberately asked the question more slowly: “Is that something you’d be comfortable doing?”

“I mean…” She sighed. “Yeah. I guess. It’s not like they don’t already know what happened.”

That didn’t bode well for the likelihood of her sharing her story in any official capacity. Then again, she was the one who reached out to Karen, and she’d come here and told Matt and Foggy, total strangers, what happened. “You mentioned earlier,” Matt began carefully, “that you’re not sure whether you’re interested in representation. May I ask why you reached out to Karen?”

“Because it happened again. Right?” She sat up a little straighter, head turning as she looked from Matt to Foggy and back again. “That’s why your office was involved. Someone else got hurt. Because of Father Geary. Right?”

Matt nodded once. “We can’t give any details, but…yes. It happened again. We’re representing another one of Geary’s, uh…another person Geary abused.”

“Well, doesn’t it help? To know it’s not the first time? To know the bishop knew he’d done it before when they transferred him?”

“Are you willing to testify?” Foggy countered. “Or write out an affidavit, at least?”

Rachel froze, heart beating faster unlike it had at any other point in this conversation, even when she was recounting what happened to her. “Um. I thought it would help just…just to know the facts.” Her nails dug into her palms. “You don’t…you don’t actually need me to talk about it, do you?”

No. No, they didn’t. Not necessarily. The facts she shared told them they needed to look into the bishop in charge of St. Mark’s during that time period. Maybe even depose him. It would be hard to prove a lie without Rachel’s testimony, but maybe the bishop wouldn’t lie. Maybe he’d tell the truth if someone just asked him the right questions…maybe.

But Matt couldn’t quite bring himself to say any of that. And Foggy stayed silent.

“Um.” Rachel pushed her chair back, barely breathing now, heat rising in her cheeks like she’d done something terrible. “Sorry, I thought—”

“No, it’s fine,” Matt blurted out. “It’s—everything you said is helpful. Really. Thank you.”

She paused as if evaluating him, then let out a small sigh of relief. “Good. Sorry. I just…I wish I could be more helpful. I just can’t.”

“It’s plenty helpful,” Matt said firmly, and kicked Foggy under the table.

“Yeah,” Foggy said quickly. “That, um, that gives us a lot of information to work with. Thank you.” His breathing hitched. “But, you know, if you change your mind…”

“I’ll let you know.” Rachel slung her purse over her shoulder. “I should go, though. I have, um, another meeting.”

Lie.

“Thank you, though, so much for your time.” Her hands were trembling a bit; she didn’t offer to shake hands, and when Foggy extended his own, she turned her head just in time to pretend not to see it. Before Matt could do or say anything, she was already out in the lobby, leaving Matt and Foggy with nothing to do but follow after her. Rachel glanced swiftly around. “Tell Karen I said thanks,” she said in a rush, and then she was gone.

As soon as the door swung shut, Matt crumbled. Sinking into the nearest chair, he rested his elbows on his knees and dropped his head into his hands, taking measured but shaky breaths.

“Wow.” Foggy stood there dumbly for a second. Then a flip switched. He started pacing back and forth in the middle of the lobby. “You hear that? They just—they _knew_ , and they let that piece of shit come be a _priest?_ And work with _kids?_ I don’t—like— _why?_ Who _does_ that?”

Matt wasn’t listening. Not to Foggy’s words anyway. Just to his tone and his rapid heartbeat. Foggy’s fury was validating, it really was. And it felt, for a small moment, like maybe Foggy was angry on his behalf. Which was…which was comforting, somehow, although Matt was a terrible friend for taking comfort in Foggy’s distress.

At the same time, Foggy’s fury was somehow alienating. Because…Matt wasn’t there yet. He should be, he should be desperate to go out tonight and unleash his own rage on whomever he could find if he couldn’t unleash it on the priest. But anger took energy, energy that Matt apparently no longer had.

Foggy was still pacing, digging his heels into their rough industrial carpet with each sharp turn. “They knew! They _knew!_ And they didn’t report it! Just hushed it up to, what, protect their _reputation?_ And they didn’t even, like, retire him! That’s a thing, right? But no, they send him to another church like it’s no big deal and don’t even put any precautions in place! Just turn a blind eye and, what, hope the child molester wakes up one day and decides to be a decent human being? Who _does_ that?”

Closing his eyes, Matt wondered how long it would take Foggy to get this ranting out of his system. Foggy’s voice faded more and more into the background, a humming anger that Matt couldn’t bring himself to feel, until Foggy said Rachel’s name.

“And we can’t even do anything for Rachel!”

Matt's eyes opened. “Come again?”

Foggy exhaled sharply, frustrated and impatient. “The statute of limitations already ran, Matt, c’mon.”

“She wanted to talk to us,” Matt pointed out quietly. “Maybe…that helped. Just talking.”

“But what good is her story if she won’t even write an affidavit?”

Matt stiffened. “Excuse me?”

Foggy kept right on going. “We need witnesses, corroboration, not people to just come in and…and tell us these tragedies and then walk back out the door. We’re not _therapists_. This doesn’t help Samuel. Or anyone!”

“Foggy.” Now there was anger, and how incredibly inappropriate of it to direct itself at Foggy rather than the people who deserved it. “Stop.”

Foggy seemed to realize he’d crossed some sort of line. His pacing slowed to a halt and he set his hands on his hips, shoulders slumped. “Sorry. I didn’t—I didn’t mean that.”

Matt clenched his jaw. “And you’re wrong. It does help. We didn’t know about the bishop before.”

“I…yeah. I know.” Foggy shook his head. “This just…sucks. It all sucks. That’s all.”

He didn’t know the half of it.

“But hey!” Foggy set his shoulders back again. “At least we’re doing something about it, right?”

That was Foggy. Always seeing the silver lining. Made Matt feel blind in more ways than one.

~

They filed the complaint against Father Geary that evening. They were suing him for: negligence, assault, battery, intentional infliction of emotional distress, false arrest and imprisonment, breach of fiduciary duty, and public nuisance.

They filed the complaint against the church for: negligence, negligence per se, breach of fiduciary duty, public nuisance, conspiracy, and aiding and abetting.

Later that same night, Matt crouched in the shadows above Father Geary’s apartment, listening as Brett arrived to arrest the priest for: predatory sexual assault against a child, sexual conduct against a child in the first degree, possessing a sexual performance by a child, luring a child, and kidnapping in the first degree.

Matt didn’t move from his spot until long after Brett had driven away with Geary. When he finally rose to his full height, his muscles groaned in protest from holding their position for so long. He took a deep, long breath of the cool night air.

Well, it was started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Luke 19:41 ~ "And when he drew near and saw the city, he wept over it."


	17. Luke 18:7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a cliffhanger, kinda-sorta? The next chapter should be up in just a couple days, if that helps.

That night, Matt stayed out far too late, fighting every criminal he could find until his fists were bloody, his muscles ached, and he was sporting a collection of impressive cuts along his body. He didn’t care. At least here, on the streets of Hell’s Kitchen under the cover of darkness, he finally felt like he had some _control_.

When he finally stumbled back home, dripping blood, favoring his still-injured hand which had definitely been set back in its healing thanks to his decisions tonight, he was too exhausted to both stitch up his wounds and shower. He opted for showering, hoping the hot water would help him relax. He was right; he didn’t even bother to towel off his hair before tumbling into bed.

He dreamed of the camp. The clear breeze bearing the fresh, sharp smell of pine needles. The distant sound of a roaring river. The closer sound of his own shoes on a dusty pathway, grinding small pebbles deeper into the dirt with every step. There was no one talking or shouting nearby, no motors running, no sirens blaring. It was _still_. It should’ve been peaceful.

It was late evening. The sun had mostly set, and there was a chill in the air. Matt wrapped his oversized hoodie tighter around him and wondered if having more muscle would make him less cold all the time. He was walking from his cabin to the chapel. He was supposed to meet with Father Sheridan, now for…the eighth or ninth time.

Matt swung his cane back and forth, keeping up appearances as always, and wondered, for a split second, why he was doing this. Why couldn’t he just turn around and go back to his cabin?

No, that wasn’t an option. Father Sheridan would be upset, and Matt would be left to deal with his sin on his own.

Reaching the chapel, he pushed open the heavy front door, wincing as it groaned on its hinges. The whole chapel was dusty. It smelled of kids from the camp and dirt from outside and the ancient hymnals lining the pews. Matt turned to the right, and his cane brushed against another door, this one flimsier. It creaked in protest as he opened it to a steep, narrow staircase.

As a rule, Matt took stairs two at a time whenever he could get away with it. He didn’t enjoy moving slowly. But, for some reason, he always climbed this specific staircase step by slow step.

At the top of the staircase was another door. This one thick and sturdy and probably soundproof for normal people. Matt put his hand on the knob, which was cold to his touch, and turned it. This door opened silently.

Father Sheridan was waiting for him in the office. He was tall, much taller than Matt, and he smelled of cigarette smoke smothered under the harsh scent of sterile mint gum. Maybe no one else had discovered the priest’s habit yet, or maybe it was just that no one questioned him. After all, he was a priest.

“You’re late,” he rasped, voice laced with disapproval. “You’re not clean.”

Matt instinctively reached up a hand to rub at the dirt smeared on his forehead from earlier that day.

Father Sheridan sighed, but reached out to draw Matt in for a long hug. “Don’t worry,” he breathed. “All will be forgiven.”

Matt started trembling and he didn’t even know why.

~

“Stop!” Matt shouted, snapping awake as he surged upright in bed, heart hammering in his chest.

His voice rang through an empty apartment. He was shouting at no one. Not even the cat; he hadn’t let her spend the night again after the pee incident.

There were tears on his cheeks and his throat was stinging. He shoved himself out of bed—his blood had dried to his silk sheets—and his feet took him directly upstairs and out onto the roof where he gulped the frigid night air into his lungs, needing to feel the city living and breathing around him. The wind ruffled his hair.

He was here, in Hell’s Kitchen, in New York. He was safe; he was _home_. It was over.

When would it _feel_ over?

The sun was rising; he turned towards it to feel its warmth on his tear-stained face, burning away the cold fingerprints lingering on his skin. He tilted his head up towards heaven.

“God,” he whispered, voice cracked, and stopped.

_God must flinch when He sees you._

Closing his eyes, Matt slowly breathed in, then out. He lowered his head and headed back into his apartment. He had work to do.

~

The news picked up the case like it was a national disaster. Articles from the _Bulletin_ and other papers as well as online sources featured scathing headlines about Father Geary and St. Matthew’s. It was a sensationalized mess, supported by nothing but hearsay. Still, Matt would be surprised if the salacious headlines weren’t literally flashing.

People were buzzing about it while Matt walked to work, descending on the story like carrion birds to a fresh carcass. They speculated freely about how much of the allegations were true, about how much the rest of the church might’ve known, about who the victims might be, about how widespread this kind of thing was here in Hell’s Kitchen. He caught references to Clinton Church and Father Lantom, causing his stomach to clench each time. For some people, this was yet another tragic but isolated incident. For others, this was proof that organized religion itself was inherently dangerous, nothing but a tool by which evil men preyed on desperate, vulnerable victims. Some wondered aloud whether Nelson and Murdock were only using the atrocity for the publicity, and Matt caught one or two furious tirades about the legal profession as a whole. Nothing but bottom feeders looking for a tragedy to exploit.

Matt wished he’d brought earplugs. The only useful thing was picking up on the fact that Geary was out on bail. Already.

Because of course.

It was a relief to make it to the office. Karen was rolling her eyes at the low quality of the journalism and saying she wanted to reach out to Ellison about it. Foggy saying that at least most of the coverage favored their side. He was concerned about the odds of getting an unbiased jury, though, and worried that, if it came to trial, they’d have to hold it in another city. Matt wasn’t so worried; he doubted it would go all the way to trial. The church was too worried about its public image. It would rather settle as quietly as possible.

The next few days were a swirl of documents. The beginnings of civil suits were nothing but paperwork. Father Geary and the diocese submitted their answers to Matt and Foggy’s claim, denying every incriminating allegation, followed by a wave of motions, each asking the court to dismiss the case for various reasons. Matt and Foggy had their set of stock responses they usually used as templates where all they needed to do was swap the facts to match the present case and send them off, but this time they wrote most of the responses from scratch, determined to word every sentence just so.

It was exhausting in the best kind of way.

Matt was so focused that he didn’t realize someone had entered the firm until he heard Foggy’s cry of, “Hey, Brett!” Lifting his head, Matt belatedly recognized the detective sergeant’s scent, breathing patterns, and heartbeat.

He resisted the urge to grind his teeth together. If Mahoney was here to try to convince Matt to go along with his plan to catch the corrupt cops again, Matt wasn’t going to be happy. Yeah, he’d staked out the house a few times at night, and he’d tracked the girl when he could, including keeping an ear out during the day when he was near St. Matthew’s or her home, but he hadn’t heard anything suspicious.

“Murdock in?” Brett asked, wasting no time on pleasantries. He seemed…nervous, maybe? It was hard to tell.

“Yep.” Foggy popped the _p_. “Being his usual busy bee self.”

“Mind if I interrupt him?”

“Am I my law partner’s keeper?” Foggy countered. “Knock yourself out.”

“Cool.” Brett crossed to Matt’s office and rapped on the doorframe. “Hey, Murdock, it’s me. Brett. You got a moment?”

Stifling a sigh, Matt unhooked his earbuds. “One second.” Matt saved the file he’d been working on twice. Couldn’t be too careful. “Okay, yeah, come in.”

But Brett stopped in the doorway. “Actually, I could really go for some coffee. Can I buy you a cup?”

Matt raised his eyebrows. This was unprecedented. “Is this some kind of bribe?”

Brett laughed. “You know I can’t be telling you that.”

Grinning, Matt got up, hiding his wince as he grabbed his jacket and wallet. “Well, as long as word doesn’t get out that I’ll sell my soul for an overpriced latte.”

“You’re a latte guy?”

“Occasionally.” Matt found his cane propped against the wall. Only then did he realize that Foggy was still in his office. “Foggy’s not coming?”

“I was hoping I could just talk to you.”

That was…new. Matt frowned. “Oh.”

“If that’s not a problem.”

Matt quickly flashed a smile. “There’s no problem. Lead the way.”

Brett set a relaxed pace to the coffee shop, which enabled Matt to hide the fact that he was still moving with a bit of a limp from the last couple of nights. At least, he hoped he hid it. Still, it was a relief to sit down again when Brett led them to the most private corner booth available. The coffee place was warm and smelled like it struck a good balance between price and quality. It was a relatively busy place, too. Plenty of movement and chatter. The ideal location for having a conversation without being overheard.

For a second, Matt was unnerved again. But he was sick of being so on edge all the time. What, he couldn’t even get coffee with a friend without feeling like there was a trapdoor somewhere under his feet? Brett was more Foggy’s friend than his, true, but still.

“Nice place, right?” Brett asked once they’d placed their orders.

The table hadn’t been thoroughly cleaned in a while, but Matt could concede that the ambiance was pleasant. “Favorite of yours?”

“When I’m on this side of town.”

“Which is often?”

“Not really.”

Matt knew that. He’d just wondered if Brett would tell the truth about it. “So…I can’t believe you came all the way over here just to buy me coffee.”

“Right.” Brett shifted his weight in his seat. His breathing hitched. He opened his mouth.

“Two coffees?” the server chirped. A young girl, a college student with her hair in a French braid. Or Dutch braid? What was the difference? She set the drinks down with a little more enthusiasm than necessary. “Can I get you anything else? Our fresh muffins are on sale.”

“Murdock?” Brett asked. “I’m still buying.”

The muffins smelled delicious, but Matt couldn’t imagine eating them (or anything) right now. “I’m good. Thanks.”

“We’re good,” Brett told the server, and she took the hint, disappearing back behind the counter. Brett took a sip of his drink right away, even though it was too hot. He made a hissing noise as it burned his tongue.

“Should’ve known it was too hot to drink,” Matt remarked.

“It smells good,” Brett countered.

It smelled average to Matt. He folded his hands on the table. “So…what did you want to talk about?”

“Just had some questions for you about the McCarty case,” he said innocently.

So why did it sound like he was lying? “You mean, more questions than you’ve already asked me?”

“Just trying to be thorough” Brett took another sip of scalding coffee and flicked his tongue against his teeth.

“You know you can’t ask me about the civil case.”

Brett ignored that. “I was thinking about what you said a while back about threats against the mother. Didn’t get the chance to ask last time we talked, but…did either of them say anything about that to you?”

Matt caught himself fidgeting, rubbing his right thumb nervously over his left. He stopped. “Uh, no. They didn’t. It’s just a guess.”

“A pretty serious guess.”

“This whole case is serious.”

“You have any specific reason to believe the priest might engage in physical violence against adults?”

Matt raised his eyebrows. “Doesn’t have to be him personally, if he’s got local police working for him.”

“Police involvement isn’t the same as police violence. Or any kind of violence. What made you think it’s even a possibility?”

Matt pressed his lips together. “It just makes sense.”

“Huh.” Brett took a moment to blow on his cup. He shifted gears. “I’ve been digging into these kinds of scandals now. Trying to get a better understanding of them. Apparently the church has a habit of moving _problematic_ priests from city to city, state to state.”

Unsure where he was going with this, Matt just nodded.

“Now, your church, for instance…Clinton Church, right?”

He knew that. He’d been there. Why was he asking?

“That priest, Lantom, he’s been there for years, right?”

Matt tensed. “There’s never been so much as a rumor that Father Lantom ever— _would_ ever—do anything like this.”

“Good, good,” Brett said easily, but the casualness in his voice contrasted with the tension in his body. “Anyway, back to Samuel. Anything else you can tell me?”

“Other than what I’ve already told you?”

“I’m new to this,” Brett admitted. “I don’t make a habit of asking defense attorneys for help, but you’re the only Catholic I know who’s actually, you know, _Catholic_.”

Matt frowned. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

Brett shrugged. “Cultural Catholicism. It’s a thing. Not really a religion, just what people do to build a sense of community. And for the people where their faith _does_ matter more, they’re generally the last ones willing to talk about this shit. So that pretty much leaves me with you.”

“I’m flattered,” Matt said dryly.

“So if you can think of anything that might be useful…”

Matt sat a little further back in his seat, away from Brett. “Look, I really don’t think I have anything to say that I haven’t already told you.”

At first, Brett just nodded, and Matt hoped that would be the end of this. Then: “Would you rather talk to someone else?”

Matt felt his eyes widen behind his glasses. “Excuse me?”

Brett shrugged awkwardly. “This kind of thing can be hard to talk about with someone you know, so if you’d feel more comfortable with—”

“What—there’s—no,” Matt spluttered. “There’s _nothing to say_.”

Brett held up his hands. “I’m not implying anything.”

Was _that_ what this was about? Brett thought Matt knew all this from personal experience, did he? It couldn’t possibly be that Matt, as a Catholic lawyer, had simply taken it upon himself to investigate this kind of thing. Shit—did everyone else think that? Foggy and Karen?

His stomach flipped. Maybe they’d been the one to bring in Brett. Thinking Matt would talk to him more easily than to them.

He grabbed his cane. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“Wait! Matt!”

Matt stopped at the use of his first name.

“I’m sorry,” Brett said, leaning out of his seat, voice low and serious. “Just—you can see how I’d be worried, right? Not about you specifically,” he added hurriedly. “But everyone who’s been in that church.”

Matt didn’t appreciate his tone or his suspicion. “It’s still my church you’re talking about,” he said sharply. But he lowered himself back into the seat. “I appreciate you taking this case on, Brett. Especially with what we know about other cops at the NYPD,” he added pointedly, letting that that linger between them. How would Brett like it if Matt told him to his face that he was suspicious of every single cop based on the actions of one or two? No one enjoyed other people making blanket statements about a group where they found their identity.

“Yeah,” Brett said. “I know as well as anyone how easy it is to turn a blind eye to—uh, sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Matt said curtly.

“But sometimes you just don’t see what you don’t really wanna see. Which is why I’m doing everything I can to make sure I don’t overlook anything here.”

That…sounded right, and Brett didn’t seem like he was lying. But then, this whole conversation had been tense from the beginning, and Matt didn’t know Brett as well, making it hard to be sure. Especially because Matt was so desperate for there to be nothing ulterior going on that he wasn’t sure he trusted his ability to determine that.

All of a sudden, Brett spoke up again. “You know what the statute of limitations is? For sex crimes committed against someone under the age of eighteen?”

Matt swallowed. “Yeah.” New York extended it in 2019. Until then, someone who was abused as a minor only had until their twenty-third birthday to file a criminal complaint. (He hadn’t known about that in time; Matt’s twenty-third birthday had passed without a second thought.) Now, that same person—hypothetical person—had until they turned fifty-five.

“And they opened that grace period.”

The one-year so-called lookback window. It wasn’t grace. Sticking the opportunity for justice in a narrow temporal window wasn’t grace. But Matt just said, “Yeah.”

“I’ve been doing some digging,” Brett went on casually. “Some experts say a survivor of sexual assault might wait thirty years to come forward. Or more.”

“Really,” Matt said dispassionately.

“So, good to hear about that statute of limitations, right?”

“It’ll help a lot of people.” Matt took a drink of his coffee. “Or maybe not. If the evidence is stale.”

“DNA evidence doesn’t degrade,” Brett pointed out.

As much as he could, Matt kept his attention on the lingering taste of his coffee. “You’re assuming everyone got a rape kit done.”

“Hmm,” Brett said, and seemed to think about that for a while. “Other witnesses, though,” he said eventually. “These priests don’t seem satisfied with one victim.”

Matt tried to ignore his distaste at the word, even though Brett had no reason not to use it with him. “Hard to find other witnesses after twenty or thirty years.”

“Not if the charges are public.”

“Because this is the kind of thing people are excited to make public.”

“Well, if it helps stop the abuse from happening to anyone else…”

Matt’s stomach twisted. He was being so selfish, sitting there in silence. But, what, should they all just fall on their swords? Give every random stranger intimate details about one of the worst parts of their life, all on the off-chance that the system was actually able to do something about it for once? Besides, who would ever trust Matt Murdock as a lawyer if—if any of that came out?

“Hard to find the priests, sometimes,” was all Matt said.

“You can subpoena the church’s records,” Brett insisted.

Matt shook his head. “They’ll claim a religious liberty defense. First Amendment.”

“That’s _sick_.”

Matt shrugged. “That’s politics. Been this way for decades.” Some judges were starting to see the light, refusing to let churches conceal records of abuse by crying about so-called _religious freedom_. But the judicial approach to such claims was far from standardized.

Brett drummed his fingers anxiously on the table for a moment. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, never saying anything. Finally, he just asked, “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Matt aimed his eyes at his drink. “You are helping,” he said quietly.

“Doesn’t feel like it,” Brett muttered.

Matt kept his eyes on his drink. “It usually doesn’t.”

~

The conversation ended soon after, as both Brett and Matt needed to return to their respective jobs. But while Brett walked off without any discernable change in his demeanor, Matt felt shaken to his core, like he’d just been cross-examined and couldn’t tell whether he’d incriminated himself.

Did Brett…did Brett _know?_ What else could have brought all that on? And Matt already made the mistake of mentioning Sheridan’s name; maybe Brett had looked into it, done some digging. Maybe he’d found facts Matt had failed to find. Maybe he’d found proof of exactly what kind of man Sheridan was, and maybe he’d connected the dots.

Matt closed his eyes, fighting the urge to throw up.

Brett knew.

No, no, Matt was just paranoid. Reading into everything. Spending so much time worrying about someone figuring it out that he saw signs when there were none.

He was halfway back to the office when he abruptly stopped, leaning heavily on his cane. He was just…he was so _tired_. Of worrying. Of evading. Of pretending.

Was it even worth it?

It wasn’t like this was some core part of his identity. And…maybe sharing the truth wouldn’t be so bad. As long as he did it on his own terms. Not with Dr. Dorner in that artificial environment. Somewhere else. With someone else.

After all, it hadn’t been bad with Claire. Not that he’d told her anything beyond that one, single truth. But still, he’d felt better the next day. Maybe sharing more of the truth would help shed just a bit of the weight.

Who, though? Not Foggy. Matt couldn’t…couldn’t _risk_ that. And definitely not Karen.

Part of what made telling Claire…not _easy_ , exactly, but _doable_ , was the fact that she knew about Daredevil, and yet that didn’t make her recoil. She’d only pulled back when she thought Matt couldn’t control himself: couldn’t control the violence he exerted, and couldn’t control his own life’s downward spiral. But the fact that Matt had this darkness in him had not, by itself, turned her away.

Claire was not entirely unique in that regard.

Matt really should get back to work. He and Foggy were just going to get busier as the case progressed. But maybe that was all the more reason to take some time now to really try to…work through this. Samuel and Foggy needed him to be reliable.

And Dr. Dorner said he needed to be objective. Well, Father Lantom was the most objective person he knew.

Tugging his jacket more securely around himself, Matt struck off in the direction of Clinton Church. The place was fairly busy when he reached it. Right; it was after evening mass. Matt paused, mentally calculating the odds that he was about to be chastised for missing the service.

Didn’t matter. He couldn’t really afford to put this off. He stepped into the church.

Most people were filing out the door, already chattering with their companions about what they wanted to do next. But some people lingered, talking quietly in the foyer. Matt even overheard a few snatches of prayers. He tried not to listen, tried to give them privacy, but he was maybe a little envious.

People seemed to approach God so _easily_. Sometimes almost irreverently, or so it seemed to Matt. Casually asking things of God, as if they were entitled. Sharing all their doubts and worries, as if the Most High cared to listen. Didn’t they realize how big God was? How holy? How _distant?_

Then again, probably none of them had done what Matt had done.

_God must flinch when He sees you._

“Matthew?”

Matt almost jumped; he hadn’t heard Father Lantom approach from behind. He quickly turned around. “Father. Uh. Hello.”

“It’s good to see you here. I wasn’t expecting that.” His tone was mildly questioning.

“Yeah.” Matt adjusted his grip on his cane. “I was…I was hoping we could talk.”

“Confession?” Father Lantom asked.

“No. I mean…” This wasn’t something he had to _confess_. It _wasn’t_. He did nothing wrong. He knew that. (Right?) “No.”

“Latte?” Father Lantom asked.

That would work, even if the extra caffeine would certainly not help his current sleeping pattern. “Please.”

Father Lantom led the way to the kitchen, where it was warm and quieter, putting the espresso machine to work in no time at all. Taking a seat at the old wooden table, Matt almost wished the whole process would take longer. He was starting to feel…he didn’t know. Better not to think about it.

When the machine was done, Father Lantom brought two cups over the table so he and Matt could sit side-by-side. He passed Matt a cup, which Matt gratefully held. At least it was something else to concentrate on.

Father Lantom waited a moment. Then he asked, gentle as always, “What’s on your mind, Matthew?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Luke 18:7 ~ "Will not God bring about justice for His elect who cry out to Him day and night? Will He continue to defer their help?"
> 
> Statutes of limitations, guys. They kill me when it comes to this sort of crime.


	18. James 2:13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two very spoilerly warnings that I'll describe in brief here, and more fully in the end notes: 1) there's a detailed discussion of sin; 2) there's a consensual sexual situation that goes wrong.  
> In other news, I did more research for this chapter than I have for any other in recent memory, and yet I can't say I arrived at the "right" answer, and I certainly had to leave a lot of things out for the sake of keeping the story focused. So I'm very curious what you all think. :P

This was fine. Matt could do this. It was just words, and he knew his way around words better than most. It was just words, and Father Lantom had probably heard far worse. It was just words. They didn’t have to change anything.

Still, Matt took a deep breath before even trying to speak, wrapping his hands around his cup to soak up as much warmth as possible. “Father, I…I have something I need to tell you.”

“I’m listening,” Father Lantom said simply.

He wouldn’t judge. He hadn’t judged Matt for being Daredevil; why would he judge him for this? Nor would he be shocked, for the same reason. He might be _sad_ , true, but he wouldn’t be _pitying_. He hadn’t pitied Matt for losing his sight and his parents, after all. So, really, there was absolutely nothing to be afraid of.

Yet fear was exactly what Matt felt coiling through his stomach and chest and clogging in his throat. He coughed to clear it. “I…”

The words wouldn’t come.

Still, Father Lantom waited.

Matt tried again. “I, uh…”

He couldn’t speak.

What was _wrong_ with him?

He set the cup down on the table and faced Father Lantom again, folding his hands in his lap. He could do this. “Father, I…”

That was it. That was all he had, as far as he could get.

He could _feel_ Father Lantom’s worry building. It made sense; Matt might be vague or evasive, but the words always came eventually. Articulation was never the problem.

Matt adjusted his glasses. “Sorry. I just…”

Just what? Why couldn’t he just _say_ it? Three words, that was all he needed. Three words, and then Father Lantom could ask questions if he wanted more information, and the rest of the story would come out, and then Matt could move on to accepting wisdom and guidance and forgiveness, if necessary, and then he could go home.

Three words. “I was…”

_Raped._

The truth was something abstract, a larger-than-life idea, something too big to be captured by a single, one-syllable word. The truth was in his head, and he didn’t know how to bring it down to his mouth. And he didn’t know what would happen if he did.

Matt clenched his jaw. “Sorry. Sorry, I can’t…”

“Take your time,” Father Lantom said softly.

As if the priest didn’t have more important things to do than wait for Matt to get up the courage to spit this out. It wasn’t even _hard_ ; why was he making this so impossible?

Matt cleared his throat again. “I…”

Father Lantom waited.

“I can’t,” Matt whispered, fresh shame uncurling in his stomach, mixed with helplessness and a terrifying sense of relief.

Father Lantom nodded slowly. “That’s all right. Maybe you can tell me why you can’t?”

“I…” Matt searched for an answer, one he could put into words. “I don’t know.”

“All right,” Father Lantom said, voice even and so, so kind. “Can you tell me…if it’s about you? Or about someone else?”

Dread settled low in Matt’s stomach. “It’s about me,” he breathed, barely audible to a normal person.

“Is it something you did?”

Yes.

No?

“I…”

Once again, that was as far as he got.

This was so _stupid_. Father Lantom was probably assuming Matt had gone off and killed someone, and Matt didn’t even know how to correct the assumption without explaining what really happened, because what if Father Lantom thought that this other thing was _worse_ than killing someone, and it _wasn’t_ , because Matt didn’t even _do_ anything, not on purpose, not…not because he _wanted_ to, he _hated_ it, except…except sometimes it felt good, but that didn’t mean he wanted it to happen. It _didn’t mean that._

Except he hadn’t fought back.

How long was he going to just sit here in silence? How long could he expect Father Lantom to wait for him? There were other people entering the church, people who needed help.

“Father,” Matt said without thinking, just because he had to say _something_ , “how do you know if something is a sin?”

Father Lantom’s small hum suggested he hadn’t expected that question. “Well, Scripture is quite clear about some things, so I assume you’re asking about something else. I’ve found that, too often, we focus on whether the behavior seems _wrong_. As in, whether it seems to us to have bad consequences. I think we’d have a more accurate understanding of sin if instead we asked whether the thing is _good_. As in, does it help me be in closer harmony with God, with other people, and with myself?”

“That’s not…that’s not what I mean.” Matt had no doubt that the _behavior_ was wrong, both what Father Sheridan did to him and what Matt did as well. “I mean, how do you know…” He bit his lip. “Is a sinful act always bad?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I mean…I mean, is a person always guilty for every sinful act they commit?”

Father Lantom’s head tilted. “Again, why wouldn’t they be?”

Matt ran his hand roughly through his hair, trying to figure out how to explain this. “All right, you know Karen, the private investigator at our firm?”

“Yes,” Father Lantom said, with a hint of knowing amusement in his voice.

“Sometimes I come up behind her, and she doesn’t know I’m there, and when I speak, she’s startled. She’s actually hit me a few times. Not hard, and it never does any damage, but still. Hitting people is wrong. So is that sin?”

“Ah.” Father Lantom scratched at his chin. “I see.”

And that was it; he didn’t say anything else.

Matt tried not to look nervous. “Father?”

“Well.” The priest gave a small, uncomfortable laugh. “You want to know if a sinful act is ever not in fact sinful, depending on some other factor. Right?”

Matt just nodded.

“All right. Would you like my answer, or the Catholic Church’s?”

Matt’s heart beat faster. Since when was there a difference? “…Both?” he managed.

“All right.” Father Lantom set his latte on the table. “The catechism explains that the morality of every human act depends on three sources: the object chosen, the intention, and the surrounding circumstances. The circumstances can mitigate culpability. But although intentions can turn a good act into an evil one, neither circumstances nor intentions can turn an intrinsically evil act into a moral one. So, in that sense, your Karen is guilty of the intrinsically evil act of striking you. Her culpability is mitigated, given that she never intended to hurt you, but not erased.”

Matt swallowed. He participated in intrinsically evil acts with Sheridan. If what Father Lantom said was true, he was guilty where he sat. “And…and your opinion?”

“It was a reflex,” Father Lantom said simply. “True, we have some responsibility for our reflexes to the extent that we encourage their development. But in Karen’s case, the reflex is self-defense. The _need_ for the reflex, and any harm that comes from it, are the result of living in a broken, fallen world. But the reflex itself is not, I believe, sin. At least, not sin for which she would be culpable.”

“What does that even mean? And is that just your opinion?”

“I wouldn’t say so, no. The Old Testament uses many distinct Hebrew words to describe what we call sin, or evil. Some words simply refer to brokenness—the idea that things are not as they should be. Or there’s the classic Hebrew word for sin, _chata_ , which comes from archery: it means missing the mark. Other words have to do with rebelling, trespassing, or having a twisted nature.”

“Okay, and…?”

Father Lantom sipped his latte, acting for all the world like this was one of their normal theoretical conversations. But there was a tension underneath, like he recognized that the conversation was weightier than it appeared. “Well, I’m sure you can see that although some of these concepts involve an idea of intent, not all of them do. The kaleidoscope of ideas presents a complex view of humanity’s fallenness—something too complex, I believe, to be explained by the three sources of morality found in the catechism and taught by the Magisterium.”

Matt tried to pull the conversation back to something more concrete. “Okay, but what about Karen? Did she sin when she hit me?”

“Depends on which word you use,” Father Lantom answered. “Her act was the result of brokenness—in a perfect world, she’d have no need for such a reflex. And maybe, by repeatedly lashing out in fear in other situations rather than holding onto faith, she’s trained herself to have such an aggressive response. That certainly misses the mark of God’s good design for her, and if she _knowingly_ allowed herself to become more aggressive over time, maybe she has a degree of culpability. But did she, in that moment of reaction, intentionally rebel or trespass against God? Did she act out of a twisted nature?” He paused. “No.”

“So…she wouldn’t have to confess?”

“I didn’t say that. But you have to remember what confession is.”

“Confession means admitting you’ve done something wrong,” Matt said confusedly.

“You’re thinking of the English definition,” Father Lantom corrected. “If you’ll indulge me in looking at yet another language, the Greek word used in the New Testament, _homologeó_ , is broader: it simply means a public declaration of agreement. When referring to sin, it means agreeing with God that the sin is wrong.” He inclined his head. “I’d say Karen could and _should_ confess, or _agree_ , that hitting you was an act that fell short of God’s design for her. That doesn’t mean she is morally culpable.”

“But where’s the line?” Matt asked, a bit desperately. “Where’s the line between an act that falls short, and an act with moral culpability?”

“Well, Matthew, I’m not sure there’s a clear answer. I just know that God knows, and God is just.”

Matt bit back a scoff.

“I didn’t think you’d like that,” Father Lantom remarked. “I can give you my best answer, if you want. But I don’t pretend to be certain.”

Matt lowered his head. “I just need something to work with, something to…hold onto.”

“You sure you can’t tell me what we’re talking about?”

Matt closed his eyes behind his glasses. “Just…your best answer, Father. Please.”

To his relief, the priest nodded. “I think it comes down to the heart. Scripture makes clear in the four Gospels that God cares deeply about the human heart. That’s why Christ was never content to warn people not to commit murder or adultery—he also tells us not to have hate or lust in our hearts. But for someone like Karen, what is her heart attitude in that moment? Is her heart involved at all? Isn’t she simply startled?”

But it wasn’t like Matt had been startled. “What…what if it’s not a reflex? How do you know what someone’s heart attitude is?”

“Can you ever? We can guess, but we can’t know someone else’s heart. Only God can.”

“How do you know your _own_ heart attitude, then?”

Father Lantom sipped his latte, taking his time to think. “It’s a good question,” he said at last. “I’m not sure we always can. And we are certainly capable of deceiving ourselves. I think we need God’s grace to reveal our own hearts to us.”

The mental image of God peering at Matt’s heart, knowing it even better than Matt did, made him feel like an ant burning under a magnifying glass.

Fortunately, Father Lantom went on: “But as far as it depends on us, I think we can gain some insight into the state of our hearts by examining our minds and our thoughts. Ephesians chapter four, for instance, suggests that darkened and futile minds lead to sin, and that conversely an essential part of our rescue from sin is the renewal of our minds. Similarly, the eighth chapter of Romans makes clear that our minds are, at any given moment, governed either by the Spirit, which loves God, or by the flesh, which is hostile towards God. So we should ask ourselves if we are thinking about God at all in that moment and, if we are, what we’re thinking about Him.”

Matt chose his next words carefully. “What if…something else…is affecting your thoughts?”

Father Lantom tilted his head the other direction. “What do you mean?”

Matt shifted his weight. “Well, in law, there’s a duress defense. If you do something that’s a crime, but someone is making you do it through force or threat of force, then you’re not culpable. Or…or even if it’s not force, but someone misleads you or confuses you so you don’t _think_ it’s a crime, then you might not have the…the required mental state for culpability. It’s all because of someone else. You…you know?” he finished weakly.

Father Lantom edged a little closer. “Are we still talking about you, Matthew?”

“No,” Matt said quickly, automatically. “It’s hypothetical.” Then he held his breath, waiting to see if Father Lantom would believe him.

But when Father Lantom addressed the so-called hypothetical, Matt couldn’t tell if it was because he believed Matt, or rather because he simply knew better than to try to pin Matt down. “As we established,” he began, “the mere fact that someone doesn’t intend to sin does not mean that they haven’t. After all, God is interested in outcomes as well as intent, and the outcomes of any sin, intentional or not, are always destructive. Both to us as individuals and to those around us.”

Matt wet his lips.

But Father Lantom kept going. “That being said, we also established that the world itself is broken, and we are not individually culpable for that. If a hurricane destroys someone’s home, they suffer, but they were never responsible. They are a victim of brokenness, of _evil_ , even, and not a perpetrator. We should mourn that situation, not cast judgment. And is that situation really so different than what you're describing?

Matt dared to hope, just a little.

Father Lantom leaned closer. “See, if God is interested in someone’s heart, that must be the crux of the issue. If someone does something because they’re threatened or mislead, is their heart actually hostile towards God, or are they simply a victim of a broken world, living in an impossible situation?”

An impossible situation.

“Might it not be that, if a person commits a sinful act under duress or as the result of manipulation, they are in fact no more than a victim of someone else’s evil?”

Victim. Somehow, the word wasn’t so off-putting in this context.

“God is not unjust,” Father Lantom said quietly. “We must trust that He knows our hearts.”

Matt was still holding his breath, but he let it out slowly, relief lessening the tension in his neck. He wondered if Father Lantom could see it on his face. He tried to lighten the atmosphere. “The, uh, the nuns were never much for emphasizing heart over actions when I was growing up here.”

Father Lantom gave a small, dry laugh. “No, I suppose they weren’t. In their defense, it’s difficult to be concerned about the hearts of so many children at once. Easier to focus on externals. At least, easier from a human perspective.”

“A human perspective?”

“With human goals. A natural human goal is to make sure each child gets through the day with their basic needs met and their classes attended. Focusing on external misbehavior is by far the most efficient way to achieve that goal. But God’s concerns go far deeper.” He paused. “In fact, I should really apologize, Matthew.”

“For what?”

Father Lantom’s voice became heavy in a way that Matt wasn’t used to. “For the fact that we at St. Agnes and Clinton Church never gave you the attention you deserved.”

Matt shifted backwards at the words, internally squirming at the thought of deserving attention. “I wasn’t neglected.”

“Physically, no, maybe not. But spiritually?”

“I wasn’t…” Matt trailed off with a frown. He wasn’t neglected spiritually. He was taught the catechism and the commandments and how to pray.

“God cares about your heart,” Father Lantom repeated softly. “How many of the people watching over you could have said the same?”

Matt shook his head dismissively. “It doesn’t matter.”

“The fact that you think that,” Father Lantom said, slowly and a little sadly, “shows that it does.”

~

The conversation was helpful. Really. The fact that Matt left Clinton Church with more questions than when he’d gone probably meant they were getting somewhere. Making progress. Sometimes progress felt backwards, but that was only because the world was a messy place.

In the meantime, Matt was _mostly_ sure that Father Lantom, at least, would say that Matt never sinned with Father Sheridan. So…that was good. (It would be a relief once Matt managed to get himself to believe it.) Father Lantom would say that Matt’s heart was confused, probably. Or maybe he would say that Matt himself had been too caught up in fight-or-flight—a reflexive response—for his heart to really be involved at all. (Father Lantom would also say, though, that the whole situation was something Matt needed to confess, if only to acknowledge that the whole situation was wrong or broken, and that was a much lighter kind of pressure, but a pressure nonetheless.)

Besides, Matt wasn’t sure he agreed with Father Lantom’s verdict. After all, maybe the first time or two, he hadn’t known what was happening. But he chose to keep going back to that confessional and, later, that office above the chapel. There was no getting around that. And the things Sheridan asked him to do…Matt could’ve at least _questioned_ it. Instead, he just went along. Participated, even.

Actively.

And he never fought back.

~

Matt was no closer to finding a sense of peace that night, but that was okay. He was with Karen, on their second date since restarting things.

The fancy restaurant had been nice, but today he wanted to bring them back to their roots, so to speak. He took her to their favorite Indian place, where he lost himself in the smell of curry and the lightness of her voice. They went back and forth, describing the various other patrons to each other in whispers and stealing bites of each other’s meals and sips of each other’s drinks.

Until. “Matt?” she asked.

He swallowed his mouthful tikka masala. “Yeah?”

“Are you, um…” She fiddled nervously with her wineglass. “Are you doing okay?”

Matt sat back in his seat, getting just a little more space between them. He could sense a Karen interrogation a mile away by now. Really, it was overdue. He flashed a disarming smile. “Yeah. Why?”

“Just…” She kind of ducked her head. “You don’t _seem_ okay. I mean…you’re doing a great job pretending, I don’t think any of your clients notice anything wrong, but I think you’re—”

He cut her off. “I’m fine.” And really, here, with her, he _had_ been. Until she brought this up. Now he felt trapped by the table. Yes, he’d gone to Clinton Church wanting to tell _someone_ , but look how that turned out. Besides, Father Lantom was in a decidedly different category from Karen.

Her heartrate was a little faster than normal. “Okay, but…I don’t really believe you.”

He tried to smile, but was pretty sure it looked more like a grimace. “I don’t know what else to tell you.”

“Look, Matt…” She lowered her voice. “You know it wasn’t your fault, right?”

His stomach tightened. “What wasn’t?”

“What happened with Samuel.”

His eyebrows shot up. “What?”

She lowered her voice even more. “You can’t hear _everything_ and you can’t be everywhere at once. It sounds like all the abuse happened during the day anyway. And…” She reached across the table, put her hand over one of his. “You can’t save everyone. I know that’s hard to accept, but it’s true.”

He blinked. She thought he felt guilty for not saving Samuel as Daredevil? Seriously? How long had she been working on _that_ theory? He cleared his throat. The easy way out of this would be to play along. Maybe even pretend that her words were a comfort; that’d make her feel good.

But it wouldn’t be honest. And while he was pretty sure trying to be fully honest would go even worse with her than it had with Father Lantom, he could at least give her _something_. “That’s not it. It’s just…this whole thing, it’s my faith, you know? So it just…cuts deeper, I guess.” That wasn’t untrue. Even without his own history, this case would always feel like a betrayal. “And I guess I’m…having a harder time. Yeah.”

There. That was…a _lot_ of honesty. Relatively speaking.

She melted like butter. “Oh, Matt.” She squeezed his hand. “I didn’t even think of it like that. That must be really tough.”

“Hard cases are part of the job. It’s fine.”

And now he felt like he was lying again.

He intentionally steered the subject somewhere less fraught, wishing he could tell her how appreciative he was of the fact that she went along with it. He was sure she still had questions, she _always_ still had questions, but he didn’t want to spend the rest of the date picking his way through a minefield.

After dinner, he walked her home, just listening with peaceful amusement as she chattered on and on about a case she was working on, gesturing emphatically, not stopping for breath. It wasn’t particularly romantic, but that was what made it better. He could imagine this in a house that they shared. Maybe she’d be pacing the living room in sweatpants with her hair in a messy bun, connecting dots between pieces of evidence, filling up the empty, silent parts of his life with her effervescence.

He could listen to her for the rest of his life.

The thought startled him. Like it should’ve asked his permission before entering his head like that. He zeroed in on her for a second, checking to see if she’d responded, like she could somehow read his mind. But she was still talking about work, laughing a little as she recounted various exploits she’d engaged in as part of her pursuit of truth.

Finally, they reached the steps outside her apartment. He turned to her, wondering how it would go over if he asked if she wanted to sit, but she intercepted him. Stepping in close, she pressed her mouth to his.

Okay, then. He needed no encouragement to kiss her back. Her fingers dug into his shirt, letting him feel the pressure of her nails on his chest. Her lips were soft and open. “You can come up,” she whispered against his mouth. “If you like.”

Oh. _Oh_. Last time, he’d said no because he’d been hiding so much from her. But this time? This time he wasn’t lying about anything. Nervousness flared, but he nodded before he could overthink it.

Still holding his hand, she led the way up the steps to the apartment. She tried to get her keys in the lock, and Matt took the opportunity to lean in and kiss her neck. At his touch, she dropped the keys and flushed. He wished he could see the blush across her cheeks.

“Clumsy?” he commented, grinning, ducking down to hand the keys back to her.

“You’re distracting me,” she huffed.

“It’s not my fault if you can’t focus.”

“You’re the worst.” She dug the key into the lock. “You’re the actual worst, you know that?”

“I’ve been generally informed.” The lock disengaged and he held the door open for her.

When they were both inside, the blast of heated air did a decent job at bringing the temperature of his hands and feet somewhere closer to the heat building in his core. She pulled him into an elevator, where he wasted no time in pressing her against a wall.

She made a noise of protest. “Matt, we’re in public.”

“We’re in an elevator,” he corrected, nuzzling along her neck.

“I have _neighbors_.”

“I don’t see anyone.”

He prized her answering laugh just as much as he prized her small gasp when his lips found a sensitive spot at her throat. He was a gentleman, though, so when the elevator stopped and the doors opened, he stepped calmly back and smoothed down his tie.

“You’re terrible,” she hissed, grabbing his hand and dragging him down the hall.

He allowed it, laughing and not caring who heard him.

She fumbled to get her door unlocked, although at this point it seemed against his interest to distract her, so he kept his hands to himself. At least, until she got the door open, at which point he couldn’t stop himself from taking hold of her. They stumbled in together and immediately tripped over shoes she’d left in the entryway.

Matt regained his balance first, holding her upright. “Quite the fire hazard, Miss Page.”

Shutting the door, she kissed under his ear. “Aren’t you supposed to have supersenses?”

He tipped his head back to grant her better access. “I might also be…a little distracted…”

She hummed triumphantly against his sensitive skin while her hands tugged at his tie. He reached up to help, loosening the knot, letting the tie slither free and fall to the ground, followed by his jacket. Her dress was next, and it was much easier to remove. He simply had to pull the zipper and slip it off her shoulders.

She shivered once, but the heat of her body flared even brighter, so bright he couldn’t resist running his hands over her curves. She arched into his touch, but her voice was frustrated as her fingers wrestled with the buttons of his shirt. “Matt…”

“I got it.” He took over, deftly undoing the buttons. They kissed as they shed the rest of their clothes and Karen moved in closer, cupping his face and pressing their bodies together, only to suddenly break the kiss. “Um…Matt?”

He wasn’t sure why she insisted on interrupting when he was trying to kiss her. “Huh?”

She shifted her weight from foot to foot. “You’re not…” She blushed again. “I mean, are you sure you, um…”

He pulled back and realized what was wrong: he wasn’t hard yet. His face went hot. “I…”

Her hands slid down his neck to the outsides of his arms, somewhere less intimate. “If you don’t want to do this…”

“No, no, I…” He didn’t know what to say; this had never happened before. “I want this, sorry, I just…”

“You sure?”

He tried as hard as he could to meet her eyes. “Karen, I swear.”

For a moment, she was quiet. Studying him, he imagined. Whatever she saw must’ve convinced her, because she trailed one hand down his chest. “Okay, then,” she said, a hint of a smirk evident in her voice now. “No shame in needing a bit of help.”

There was a lot of shame in that, actually, but before he could do or say anything, she was reaching down between his legs. A shiver ran through him.

“You like that, huh?” Her voice was pleased; her hands kept working.

_Look at you. You actually like that._

He shoved the voice out of his head. Not here, not _now_. None of that got to have anything to do with right now. He buried his face in her hair, breathing in her scent, trying to ground himself.

Her fingers stroked, faster, firmer.

Without warning, an air raid siren went off in his brain. Her touch was nothing— _nothing_ —like _his_. But Matt jolted backwards anyway, feet finding their position in a fighting stance, one hand tucked up by his chin with the other guarding…lower.

Karen jerked back like she’d been stung. “Matt!”

The confessional was cramped, dusty. It smelled of stale air and dirt and sweat and sex and his own fear. The seat beneath him was firm, uncomfortable, unyielding.

“Matt?” Karen was a statue but for her racing heart. “Are you okay?”

No, he was about to throw up, or else shake out of his skin.

“Matt, you’re scaring me. What’s going on?”

He didn’t _know_. Nothing like this had ever happened before.

“Matt, say something!”

His brain was hovering right at the edge between fight and flight, and he couldn’t even begin to think what he could possibly say to explain himself. Whatever she needed to hear was definitely not something he could say right now.

She folded her arms across herself, like she was trying to shield herself even though he couldn’t see her. “Okay. Okay, um…this is not going how I expected.”

He needed to get out of here before he made it, somehow, _worse_. Focusing on next steps, he groped around for his boxers.

“Wait, you’re leaving? Seriously?”

“I’m—I’m sorry.” There. Words. Worthless words, especially coming from him. Not untrue, but worthless. He found his boxers, pants, and shirt, fumbling to get dressed.

“You’re sorry,” Karen repeated, completely emotionless.

“I’ll—I’ll explain when I can, I promise.” An empty promise, he was sure. Not that it mattered. After this, she wouldn’t want to hear anything he could say now or in the future—and that, that was too much to think about right now. He pulled on his pants. His keys and phone and everything were still in his back pocket. Good.

Karen was just…standing there. Still naked. Like she expected him to suddenly say this was all a joke.

If only. Instead, he tugged his shirt over his head, even though the collar restricted around his throat. Was he hyperventilating? No, not yet, but almost. He leaned over for his shoes, and the lightheadedness was so intense he had to sit down.

“What’s wrong?” Karen was kneeling in front of him. He hadn’t noticed her transition to the floor. “Are you hurt?” But she wasn’t touching him.

“I don’t—I don’t—I don’t really know what—” He pulled his shoes on. “I have to go. I’m so sorry.”

She said nothing, and remained kneeling even when he managed to get to his feet. He tasted a hint of salt in the air.

He couldn’t afford to think about that right now. He focused on putting one foot in front of the other until he escaped her apartment complex, letting the door close and lock behind him. He recoiled at the very thought of trapping himself in the cab of a taxi, so there was nothing else to do but start the long walk home alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> James 2:13 ~ "For judgment is without mercy to one who has shown no mercy. Mercy triumphs over judgment."
> 
> To expound on the warnings:  
> 1) Matt and Father Lantom talk about the definition of sin and how the concept is affected by ideas like duress and manipulation. Father Lantom doesn't exactly adhere to the strictly Catholic understanding of how a person's intent and circumstances effect the sinfulness of an action (at least, as I understand the Catholic understanding). I still tried to present both "sides" accurately, even though Lantom clearly has a preferred side. But this chapter was never designed to be an essay on sinfulness, and there are some things I encountered during my research that I had to leave out.
> 
> One thing I do want to mention, though, is that it's possible that some (though not all) Catholic experts on sin would argue that the issue of the three sources of morality are moot in a situation like Matt's if you recognize what happened to Matt as an act of violence against him, rather than a sexual act in which he participated. But I couldn't really go into that in this chapter, since Matt never gave Father Lantom the real context.
> 
> 2) Matt and Karen go back to her place after her date, but Matt gets triggered when she touches him, and leaves without explaining what happened.


	19. Revelation 21:4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know I'm behind on replying to comments (as...always, honestly) but your comments on the last chapter were so, so interesting! Thank you so much!
> 
> Warning for a conversation Matt overhears about a common misconception that people who experience abuse are more likely to become abusers themselves. NOT TRUE, and there are actually some really cool studies now that dive into risk vs resilience factors, which are far more informative, but, anyway, it's kind of a rough conversation Matt overhears, so I wanted to drop a warning.

The next morning, Matt woke up and contemplated pretending he hadn’t. His body screamed at him from how hard he’d pushed it last night (after getting home, he’d turned around and gone straight back out, tracking down every criminal he could find until the sun began to rise). Now every muscle felt sore, and there was a long slice along his forearm that definitely should’ve gotten stitches last night, but he just hadn’t cared, and now there was blood on his silk sheets. He rolled over, pressing his face into his pillow to dampen the coppery smell.

Rain pattered musically on the roof, plinking off metal surfaces. It was nice. It mostly drowned out the rest of the city. He wondered whether the cat had found somewhere dry to stay. Had she known it was about to rain? Cats could tell that kind of thing, right? She should’ve come here. He would’ve let her stay with him even without a solution to the litterbox problem.

Well, if he wasn’t going in to work today, he should call Foggy ahead of time. Spare him the worry. Say he’d gotten hurt last night. Then he wouldn’t have to interact at all with Karen today. He couldn’t even start to think about what he was supposed to say to her.

But if he stayed home, what would he even do? He could get some work done, but there were files he needed at the office. Besides, he had the terrible suspicion that he would in fact not get anything done if he stayed home when just curling up in bed and pretending he didn’t exist was so much more appealing.

This was ridiculous. He was an adult, not a teenaged boy. And he _refused_ to spiral the way he did after he and Elektra broke up. Besides, he had their clients to think about.

Not bothering to open his eyes, he rolled out of bed and started sluggishly getting ready.

The sodden city echoed his mood as he walked to work. It was slow-going, making a show of using his cane to avoid puddles lest he ruin his work shoes, and frozen rain seemed to hang in the air. By the time he reached the office, he was trying not to shiver. He paused outside the main door, listening. He didn’t hear Karen’s rapid typing and tried not to literally sag with relief. She wasn’t in yet.

Unfortunately, Foggy was. He popped out of his office as soon as Matt stepped into the lobby, like he’d been _waiting_ for him. “Soooo…” he said leadingly.

Matt concentrated on shrugging off his jacket and hanging it up. “What.”

Foggy leaned against the nearest wall, settling in for the conversation. “Y’know, I’m just curious. About last night.”

Matt went cold. “What?”

“You and Karen! How’d it go? Tell me everything. Or…well, not _everything_ , but the gist. Overall.”

She must not have told him. Which—Matt instantly felt irrational for thinking she would. Why would she? This—this— _whatever_ this was, it was private. And Karen was one to protect privacy. Well, not the privacy of criminals or even strangers. But of her friends, yeah. She didn’t push when Foggy and Matt were having problems, so why would she go around telling Foggy about her problems with Matt?

The relief was so sudden and so intense that Matt had to lean back against the wall.

“That good?” Foggy asked knowingly.

“…Yeah,” Matt managed.

It was far from a convincing performance, and Matt knew it.

Sure enough, Foggy edged closer. “Wait. Did something happen?”

“ _Nothing happened_.” It was too true.

“Oh. _Oh_. Sorry, man. I would’ve thought…huh. Well, don’t take it personally, all right? She obviously adores you. She might just need a little more, y’know, romancing. First.”

Deep, deep down, buried under what he hoped was a stable exterior, Matt almost kind of wanted to cry. Of _course_ Foggy assumed Karen was the one who wasn’t up for it. Matt was the boyfriend, so of course he shouldn’t have any problems with sex.

Matt remembered he was supposed to be saying something. “Yeah. Uh. Makes sense.” With that, he made his way to his chair in his office, sinking down while he wondered if he was broken permanently.

Foggy followed, still talking. “And, not to boast, but if you need any help, I’m kinda an expert with the whole wooing thing. I mean, not really, but let’s just say what I lack in superhero workout routines I make up for in other—what, what is it?”

Matt’s head had snapped around towards the window, one hand gripping the arm of his chair. His entire body was a coiled spring, ready to move. Fight. Run.

But it was nothing. Just a stupid bird outside, taking flight in a flurry of sound that Matt hadn’t been expecting.

Forcing his fingers to let go of the arm of the chair, he turned back to Foggy. “Sorry. I thought I…heard something.”

“Oh.” All humor drained from Foggy’s voice. His head turned briefly towards the window. “Yeah, you seem kinda jumpy lately.”

Great. Perfect.

Foggy came closer, not saying anything until he was sitting on the corner of Matt’s desk. It was something he’d done a thousand times, but somehow today it felt like a trap. “Hey, Matt?”

Matt raised his eyebrows.

“Can I ask you a question?”

 _No,_ Matt wanted to say. “Shoot.”

“…Can you tell me what’s wrong? See, I’m not even asking _if_ something’s wrong. ’Cause I know something is. I just don’t know what it is. So. Can you tell me?”

Matt wanted to scream. “Nothing’s wrong.”

Foggy’s tiny sigh was disappointed. “All right. I really didn’t wanna do this, but _you_ are the one disputing whether something’s wrong at all, so now I’m kinda obligated to prove it. Like, we could’ve just stipulated to that, you know? Would’ve been much easier on everyone.” He paused hopefully. “Still not too late to stipulate.”

Behind his glasses, Matt shut his eyes tight. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“Okay.” Foggy folded his hands in his lap. “I’ll start at the beginning, then. Near as I can tell, this _something_ started going wrong right when we started helping Hannah McCarty. You came in late the next day, remember? Said you overslept. But you didn’t, did you?”

“I did,” Matt said weakly.

“Okay,” Foggy said. “So tell me why.”

“It was just a bad night.”

“Why? What happened?”

Matt swallowed. He could tell Foggy this much. He _had_ to tell Foggy this much. It was his only chance at getting Foggy off his back. “I, uh…there was a sexual assault that night. I stopped it. But it…it was just…” He clenched his jaw. “It was just bad.”

Foggy nodded, and for a second, Matt thought he’d done it: he’d been truthful enough, and now Foggy would let it go.

But Foggy asked, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You hate hearing about Daredevil.” It came out hard, almost cruel. It wasn’t entirely true, either. Foggy had gotten a lot more open to talking about Matt’s activities as Daredevil. It was just easier to pin it on Foggy. Besides, Foggy could argue that no, he didn’t hate hearing about Daredevil, but he’d have a hard time arguing that Matt didn’t still _believe_ he hated hearing about Daredevil.

“I guess I see why you’d think that,” Foggy said softly. “Not true, though. For the record. And, for the record, I want you to tell me what goes on out there. Especially if it’s, y’know, something like that.”

Matt felt some of the tension in his muscles relax. “I’ll tell you next time.” He started to get up.

“Hold on.”

Matt stopped.

“Because then there was the whole, uh…broken hand thing.”

Matt tried to move his left hand out of Foggy’s view.

“Can you please just tell me why you were punching things that morning?”

No answer.

Foggy reworded his question. “Can you at least tell me _what_ you were punching?”

Yes, that was a safe question. And Foggy would figure it out for himself any day now, the next time he happened to glimpse Matt’s bedroom, where the wall behind his bed was still cracked. “My headboard,” he answered.

“You punched your headboard.”

“Yeah.”

“Were you…” Foggy’s voice went up a bit, like he thought he was onto something. “Were you upset about the case?”

“Would you let it go?”

Foggy took a deep, readying breath. “I’ll give you a choice. You can either tell me why you punched your headboard, or you can tell me about that nightmare you had here at the office.”

Matt’s suit was too heavy. He was sweating. “What makes you think you get to give me choices?”

“Because I’m your friend, Matt,” Foggy said tiredly.

“It’s none of your business.”

“Whose business is it, then?”

Matt pressed his lips together.

Foggy dragged his hand down his face. “Look. We’re best friends, and I’m worried. I think that’s already been established. Repeatedly. But you’re right, I can’t force you to talk to me just because we’re friends. But…we’re also partners. And…frankly, I’m too stressed to get any work done when I’m worrying so much about you.”

There was no lie in his heartbeat. Matt should feel guilty about this. He didn’t. He didn’t really feel anything. “Maybe you should go to therapy,” he said flatly.

“I’ll go if you go.” It sounded like a dare.

Matt weighed his response on his tongue. “I’m already going,” he said at last.

He felt the wave of Foggy’s relief as if it were his own. “Wait, really? You are?”

Matt nodded.

“Since when?” Foggy pried.

Matt narrowed his eyes in warning.

“So…since taking this case, I’m guessing?”

“Foggy. Back off.”

“Sorry.” Foggy slid off the desk. “Sorry, I’ll stop pushing.” He ran his hand down his tie, adjusting it. “Uh, thanks for telling me, though. About the therapy. Um. You…you’re not lying, are you?”

Matt kind of wanted to punch him. But, then, he supposed he deserved that. Digging in his pocket, he pulled out Dr. Dorner’s card and flicked it at him. “Satisfied?”

Foggy caught it clumsily. “Huh. Yeah. Okay. Is she any good?”

“How many questions are left in this interrogation?”

“Sorry.” Foggy handed the card back. “Thanks for telling me. And…I guess sometimes it’s easier to talk to a stranger, but…you _can_ talk to me. Right? Or…have I done something to make you think you can’t?”

Matt was taken aback by the sheer kindness of the question. Foggy, _inviting_ Matt to list whatever he thought Foggy was doing wrong. Matt wet his lips. “No. I know I can talk to you.”

But _can_ was very different from _will_.

~

Aside from a bumpy start with Foggy, the day was productive. In addition to making progress on their other cases, Matt and Foggy finished up their document requests to send to Geary and St. Matthew’s. This was particularly important for their case against the church, which hinged on proving what St. Matthew’s knew, when they knew it, and what they did with that information. To that end, they requested both formal and informal personnel writings and records, as well as any and all communications between Geary and his supervisors regarding the church’s policy and Geary’s conduct.

Then, instead of taking a lunch break, Matt went ahead and drafted a motion to compel those documents in anticipation of Geary’s counsel’s objections. The motion was relatively simple: he just needed to demonstrate the information’s relevance, his client’s compelling need for the information, and the fact that the information sought could not reasonably be obtained through other non-confidential sources.

Finally, Matt and Foggy reconvened after lunch to go through a list of potential expert witnesses. From his own conversations with Samuel as well as Samuel’s conversation with both Matt and Foggy, Matt was consistently impressed with the kid’s ability to tell a cohesive story. His timelines seemed accurate, he rarely forgot important details, and he never recanted so far. Still, Matt knew that all that could change with the pressure of giving testimony at trial—or even just giving testimony in a deposition.

Which meant Matt and Foggy needed an expert on child abuse to be ready to explain to a jury why any apparent problems with Samuel’s testimony didn’t mean that Samuel was unreliable as a witness. They were simply the results of the abuse. The expert would not be allowed to go so far as to actually say whether they thought Samuel was telling the truth, but they could explain how behavior such as Samuel’s actually constituted evidence that abuse really occurred.

Then, on the way home from work, Matt concentrated on enjoying the moment. Dr. Dorner wanted him to be more mindful of the positive things in life, using active awareness of goodness to combat the ever-present sense of evil. And it was…helping, he supposed. Each night, he intentionally looked for evil, and couldn’t afford to waste time appreciating the flashes of goodness he found. How dare he stop and enjoy the sounds of a family playing a board game or a couple laughing together when he needed to stop an assault? And so it made sense that, come daylight, he’d have to be more intentional at focusing on the good.

Now, for instance. There was a mother with her daughter’s hand held tightly in hers. The daughter was splashing in puddles left by the rain this morning, and the mother seemed simultaneously resigned to them both getting wet and amused by the child’s enthusiasm.

Matt allowed himself a smile. The tip of his nose was cold from the chilled air, but this was nice.

Snippets of conversation made their way to him as he walked, mostly mundane. But suddenly, his head snapped around when he heard, “Did you hear about that priest? Molested some kid, right here in Hell’s kitchen.”

Matt stopped dead.

It was a male, probably in his forties, talking to a woman. “This shit happens too much.”

“It hasn’t been proven yet,” the woman pointed out.

The man didn’t seem to hear her. “I’m glad they’re suing. Otherwise it’d just get covered up. But that bastard should be in _jail_.”

“They’re doing an investigation,” the woman reminded him.

“Wonder what it’ll turn up.” The dark edge to the man’s voice suggested he already had a good idea.

“You think he’s done this to other kids?”

Matt lowered his head.

“Maybe,” the man said dismissively; that was obviously not what he was interested in. “Or maybe it’ll come out that it happened to him when he was a kid.”

“What?” The woman sounded shocked.

“Look, I’m not saying we shouldn’t send him to jail. I’m just saying, we don’t know his background. I mean, he was probably abused, too.”

Matt’s stomach flipped.

“Why would you say that?” the woman asked.

The man’s voice took on a new tone, sickeningly eager, fascinated. “Well, I mean, who just wakes up and decides to be a child molester? Something must’ve happened. And we all know people who are abused become abusers.”

Matt felt very cold. He was clutching his cane so tight it hurt.

“I guess,” the woman said doubtfully.

“There’ve been studies,” the man insisted. “And, I mean, it makes sense, doesn’t it? You go through something like that, you get messed up, so you turn around and do it to other people. I’m not saying it’s an excuse. But it’s an explanation.”

“But—”

“Sir?”

Matt recoiled at the touch of a hand on his shoulder. A new stranger was standing right next to him, too close for comfort.

“Sir?” the stranger asked. “Can I help you get somewhere?”

Matt realized he was still standing in the middle of the sidewalk. Unusually considerate, the New Yorkers were passing around him like a stream flowing around a rock. Except for this stranger, who—oh, his girlfriend was watching. That explained his sudden fit of compassion for the blind man, then.

Matt stepped away. “I’m fine.” He was no one’s charity case.

“Okay, cool, just checking.” The stranger rejoined his girlfriend, who patted him on the arm and cooed about how sweet he was.

Turning on his heel, Matt started walking in the opposite direction. He didn’t care where he was going, he just had to get out of earshot of that conversation.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t heard it before. It was a common oversimplification of a complex reality, and easy for most people to swallow. _Convenient_. Just take the abusers and the abused and put them all in the same category so the normal people can go on with life. Better that than having to show actual compassion to anyone.

It was wrong. He knew that. The studies cited were obsolete. New, better data was available, showing that people who were abused were no more likely to become a perpetrator than anyone else. In fact, people who’d been abused and saw their own abuse in a negative light were _less_ likely to become abusers.

He knew that. He _knew_ that.

So why did he feel like a stranger in his own body? And why did he feel so… _scared?_

It was fine. He was fine. Hearing something like that, it was bound to shake him up a little, but he knew it wasn’t true, and that was what mattered.

Except.

He stopped walking again.

 _He_ knew it wasn’t true, but did Foggy know that?

Did _Karen?_

His head started spinning. When was he supposed to tell her what happened to him? He had to sometime, right? It would affect her; hell, it already _had_. Last night proved that. He had to tell her.

The thought alone made him want to throw up.

She wouldn’t respect him anymore. Who would?

Or, worse, maybe she’d see him as nothing more than a ticking time bomb. _Everyone knew_ people who were abused became abusers, right?

No, she was smarter than that. She had to be. But intelligence wouldn’t make a difference unless she’d done the research on this issue, and why would she? Was there a casual way to say, “Hey, Karen, just for fun, I was thinking you might want to investigate whether it’s true that all abuse victims become abusers”?

And—just imagine the best case scenario. Imagine she wanted to be with him regardless. What then? What if she wanted _kids?_ How was Matt supposed to—how was he supposed to know the first thing about how to protect his own child from what he went through? How was he supposed to know what to say if his kid started asking questions about sex and sexuality? And—his stomach flipped in sheer horror—would he be expected to _tell_ the kid what happened to him? Would Karen tell?

He couldn’t do this. And if _he_ couldn’t, there was no way he could ask her to handle it.

It was fine. They hadn’t even been dating that long. He could just tell her it wasn’t working out. She’d be hurt, but better that than the alternative.

 _Yeah, and then what?_ a voice in the back of Matt’s head wanted to know. The voice sounded oddly like Maggie’s. _You never date anyone seriously? Never let anyone get close? Let Foggy and Karen marry other people and start families while you spend your whole life on nothing but Daredevil and the law?_

He was just being realistic.

 _Don’t let that priest take this from you,_ the voice argued. _He’s already taken enough._

Matt didn’t have a rebuttal to that, so he ignored it, pulling out his phone instead, sending Karen a text asking if they could meet.

~

Karen agreed to meet him at a coffee shop late that evening. Not the one too close to the office; Matt didn’t want these bad memories associated with it. Besides, this place was slightly more upscale. It was literally the least he could do, but he wanted to buy her a decent cup of coffee for this conversation.

He couldn’t tell, from her texts, whether she thought this was a date, or a meeting between friends, or something else. He should’ve signaled somehow that this would be a serious conversation, just so she was prepared, but he didn’t want to worry her. At least, not prematurely. Let her have a few more minutes thinking everything was mostly okay. It was like a weird gift he could give her.

He got there first and ordered both their coffees—he knew her favorite, knew to ask the barista to use chocolate milk instead of regular milk and add two extra shots of espresso. Then he stood by the door, shifting his weight from foot to foot, as he listened for her approach.

She finally came through the door in a flurry of cold wind, scarf flapping, and almost ran into him. She stopped just in time, and hesitated for a split second before kissing his cheek. He could’ve— _should’ve_ —pulled back, but he blamed his immobility on the fact that they were in public. He pretended to be startled instead. Her lips were cold.

“This place is nice,” she said, unwinding her scarf from around her neck.

“I already ordered for you.”

“Did you remember the—”

“Chocolate milk? Yes.”

“My hero.” She leaned into him for a second, her shoulder against his, then glanced around. “Where should we sit? Ooh, the windows are nice. I mean, I know you can’t see it, but across the street there’s this store with Christmas lights all strung up outside already. It’s really pretty.” She was rambling, trying too hard to pretend that this was normal.

“Actually, I was thinking that corner over there.” He pointed his chin towards the back of the seating area, a secluded table that offered some semblance of privacy.

“Oh. Okay.” She followed him to the table, folding her scarf as she went. They sat across from each other, and she set her scarf and purse aside. “What’s up?” she asked.

He took a deep breath. “Listen, Karen—”

He broke off as footsteps approached. “Matthew?” the server asked.

“Yeah, that’s me,” he said quickly, turning his head up in her direction.

The server deposited both their drinks and tried to inveigle them into splurging on the shop’s various pastries.

“No, thanks,” Matt said, more curtly than he meant. He resisted the temptation to apologize.

“No problem,” the server said brightly, in that fake, unflappable customer server voice. “Enjoy your coffees.” She fluttered off across the shop to interrupt someone else’s conversation.

Matt turned back to Karen. “So, listen.” He wrapped his hands around his cup. “About last night…”

She held her own cup tighter. “You don’t have to explain. I was nervous too.”

No, she was confused, and hurt, and worried about him, and she definitely wanted him to explain. Matt took another, deeper breath. “Look, I…I still don’t really know what happened. But I do know that it’s definitely not you. It’s me.”

Karen shifted uneasily in her seat. “You…you know what that sounds like, right?” She tacked on a little nervous laugh at the end.

He swallowed, wondering how long it would be before he heard her real laughter again after this. “That’s how it’s supposed to sound. Karen, I…” He hated to admit this, to make it real for himself what he was about to lose, but he owed her as much honesty as he could scrounge up. “I care about you. I hope you know that. But clearly I’m not…I’m not really in a place where I would be good for you.”

Her tiny exhale was shocked. “What? Look, if this is just about last night, we can—we can figure that out. Or _not_ , if you don’t want to. But maybe we took it too fast, _I_ took it too fast, I shouldn’t have—”

“I said, it’s not you,” he interrupted. “And it’s not…just about last night.”

She lowered her voice. “Matt, listen. I know you’ve been…I don’t know, struggling. But that doesn’t mean you have to push me away. Maybe I can help.”

“You can’t.”

“How do you _know?_ ”

Of course she didn’t believe him. She’d never met a mystery she couldn’t solve, and she never backed down from something that needed to be fixed. He was asking her to act unprecedented, and he knew it, but he couldn’t muster up an argument more effective than a feeble, “Karen, please. Just don’t.”

She swallowed hard, folding her arms across her chest. “Really. That’s all you’re giving me.”

“Sorry,” he said, truthfully and pathetically.

“What about—what about this.” She took a deep breath. “Forget dating and romance and all those complications. I’m still your friend, okay? So could you just…just talk to me?”

“It won’t change anything.”

“Matt! You’re obviously struggling, but I’m _right here_ , I _care_ about you, I’m _listening_ , why can’t you just tell me what’s going on?”

He clenched his jaw. “Sorry.”

For a moment, she simply sat there. Shocked, offended, angry, worried. Then she rallied. “Look, last night was…there was a lot going on. I know you say this isn’t just about last night, but can’t we slow down? Let’s not make any big decisions right now, okay? Let’s give it a couple days, see how things are then.”

Her logic made a frightening amount of sense. “No.”

She waited. Then: “No? That’s it?”

“That’s all I have.”

“Matt…” She bit down hard on her lip. “I think something’s really wrong with you.”

“Yeah. I know. That’s why I’m doing this.”

“What— _no_ , that’s not what I’m saying.”

“But it’s what I’m saying.”

She fell silent again. He waited, anxious, for her new angle of attack. Finally, she said, in a small voice, “Is this really what you want?”

No.

Despite the blindness, despite his glasses, he lifted his face and tried to meet her eyes. “Yes.”

It was like he could _feel_ her heart breaking, even from across the table. She sat there in silence as if he’d change his mind if she just waited long enough.

He didn’t say anything.

“Okay,” she said at last. “I guess that’s it, then?”

“Yeah,” he said, barely audible.

“Okay.” Her voice was shaky. “Um, thanks for…never mind.” She plucked up her bag and her scarf. “Just…with whatever’s going on, promise me you’ll take care of yourself. Okay? I really mean that.”

Each loving word was a knife in his gut.

She sniffed. “Bye.”

She got up, leaving her drink behind. Her footsteps hurried across the floor. The door chimed as it opened and closed.

Throwing a few bills on the table, Matt got up, abandoning both their drinks, and made straight for the nearest bathroom. Single room. Slipping inside, he locked the door and pressed his back to the opposite wall and tried to take stock of his situation.

Foggy thought he was a disaster. He’d just torpedoed any shot he’d ever have at being with Karen. Claire would never look at him the same now that she knew what’d happened.

At least he still had work. And Maggie, and Father Lantom. And he could still go out at night, could still escape for just a little while into someone else.

He was—

No. He wasn’t fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Revelation 21:4 ~ "He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away."


	20. Proverbs 20:19

After chasing criminals all night and getting about three hours of sleep, Matt limped straight in to work and locked himself in his office. Karen didn’t try to talk to him. Nor did Foggy, which led Matt to suspect that Karen had told him…something. What, exactly, he had no idea.

It didn’t matter. This was for the best. He could lose himself in the work and not worry about dealing with his friends. Or, well, _friend_. Karen might insist otherwise, but they definitely weren’t friends. Not anymore. He’d made sure of that.

At least he could take solace in the fact that the day was sure to be shitty regardless. They were meeting with Samuel and Hannah later today, to prep the kid for his upcoming deposition, but first Matt needed to go through all the notes from Samuel’s therapists. Notes the defense had already requested. He just had to comb through it all to find anything that needed to be redacted. Namely, reference to other sexual abuse Samuel may have suffered or anything Samuel might have said that was privileged for third parties.

Opening up his laptop, he found the file and placed his earbuds in his ears. Clicked to play.

He listened for half an hour before he had to get up and find something to punch that wouldn’t break. Or break his hand. When he couldn’t find anything, he went for a walk instead, hoping the frigid air would cool him down.

~

It didn’t. Matt still felt jittery from what he’d heard, but he had to pull himself together and get back to the stifling office by the time Hannah and Samuel arrived.

Samuel was scheduled to be deposed by the DA in two weeks, but he wanted to have his deposition with Matt and Foggy first. It would be easier if the first time was with people he knew, Hannah said. Not that the DA hadn’t reached out; she had. But a brief phone conversation or two was nothing compared to the time Matt had spent with the kid. Even Foggy had spent more time.

And so Samuel’s deposition with Matt and Foggy—as well as Geary’s attorney, and both of St. Matthew’s attorneys—was scheduled for next week. Meaning Matt and Foggy needed to make sure the kid was ready.

They could prep Samuel, but they could not coach him. It was a fine line to walk, and even finer when working with minors. If the opposing counsel sensed that Matt or Foggy had told Samuel what to say, how to say it, or what _not_ to say, they could get Samuel’s testimony discredited at best. At worst, they could get the testimony entirely thrown out.

Which, since Samuel was the only survivor of Geary’s abuse willing to come forward at this point, meant the case would completely fall apart.

Hannah joined them in the conference room, where she seemed even more nervous than her son. Samuel didn’t seem to be thinking ahead enough to really anticipate what was coming. Because he was an eleven-year-old boy who was more interested in whatever was happening in the next thirty minutes? Or because he was shying away from imagining what the deposition would actually be like?

Either way, Matt needed to give Samuel a clearer picture, lest the kid be blindsided once he actually found himself facing down three attorneys for the other side.

“A deposition has two main purposes,” Foggy explained. “First, both sides want to figure out what the witness—that’s you—actually knows. Or doesn’t know. Or doesn’t remember. Second, both sides want to preserve the testimony in case something happens.”

“Something happens?” Samuel sounded confused. “Like, in case I die?”

“Well…yeah,” Foggy said, a bit awkwardly. “Or in case you decide not to testify if it goes to trial. Or in case it goes to trial, and you _do_ testify, but you say something different on the stand. Then either side can use your deposition to try to figure out what the truth is.”

“There’s another reason,” Matt said more quietly. “Depositions are important for figuring out how you’ll do as a witness. For instance, the other side wants to see if you can keep your story straight and if you can hold up under pressure.”

“Like, they’re testing me?” Samuel didn’t sound worried. He sounded determined to prove himself.

Matt was proud and concerned at the same time. Overconfidence could ruin a witness’ testimony.

“Pretty much,” Foggy said.

Matt steered the conversation on. “We’ll ask questions first, and the lawyers for Geary and St. Matthew’s will get to ask questions. There’ll be a court reporter there recording everything, but they won’t be otherwise involved. Foggy and I will start off with some simple questions for you that you can answer easily. How old you are, where you live, who you live with. That kind of thing. Just to warm up.”

“I’m not nervous,” Samuel insisted.

“It’s for our sake too, bud,” Foggy said, and Matt would be surprised if he didn’t throw in a wink. “Helps everyone get into a good rhythm before we get to the harder parts.”

Samuel made a skeptical noise.

“After that, we’re gonna have to start talking about Geary. How you met, what kinds of things you did with him. How things started to, y’know, go further. We’ll try to ask as few questions as possible about what he did specifically. Would you rather tell us as much as you can think of, and have us fill in the gaps with more questions, or would you rather start small and have our questions guide you through it?”

“Um.” Samuel shifted his weight. “I don’t know.”

“That’s okay. Just think about it and let us know. We’re fine either way.” Although leading questions were generally restricted on direct examinations, courts made exceptions when dealing with children, and even more so when dealing with children and testimony about sexual abuse.

Matt stepped in again. “We’re also going to need to ask some questions in anticipation of what the defense asks. So you can explain some things that a judge or a jury might be confused about.”

Samuel apparently picked up on the seriousness of Matt’s tone because his voice was equally serious when he said, “What things?”

“Like why you didn’t tell anyone what happened right away,” Matt answered gently. “And why you kept going back to Geary.”

“But I didn’t want to!”

“I know,” Matt said immediately. “Foggy and I both know, and so does your mom. All you have to do is explain that as clearly as you can so that other people know, too.”

But Samuel lowered his head, heart beating faster.

“Sammy?” Matt prompted. “What is it?”

“I don’t…” Samuel hesitated. “I don’t know how to explain it.”

Matt felt a pang deep in his chest.

Samuel lifted his head, face aimed directly at Matt. “How would _you_ —”

“We can’t talk to you about that,” Matt interrupted. It was too quick, too cold, but he was reeling from the sudden adrenaline spike from hearing Samuel’s words, and he didn’t want to know what Foggy would be thinking if Samuel finished that question. He cleared his throat. “That would be coaching. We can’t coach you on how to answer questions.”

“Oh.” Samuel ducked his head again, face heating up. “Sorry.”

Matt felt a stab of guilt. “You didn’t do anything wrong. We’re just…trying to be careful.”

“You can talk to your therapist, though,” Foggy suggested. “Maybe go through it with them, get used to talking about it, figure out the best way to explain it. Sound better?”

“Yeah,” Samuel mumbled, still sounding guilty.

“The most important thing,” Matt said firmly, “is just that you tell the truth. That goes for the whole deposition. And if they ask you something you don’t know,” he added, “just tell them that. Don’t try to guess.”

Foggy nodded. “Other than that, remember that the other side is going to be asking leading questions that try to suggest an answer they want. They’ll say things like _isn’t that right_ to try to get you to agree with them. Or they’ll use really broad words like _always_ and _never_ to trap you. So just slow down, take a breath, and stick to the truth.”

“I’m not gonna lie.” Samuel was starting to sound nervous now.

Good. He should be. “One more thing,” Matt said, softening his voice, “Be prepared for lots of questions about what happened. The rapes.” The boy didn’t flinch at the word, but his heart beat faster. “Foggy and I won’t linger over it, but it’s possible that the other side will.”

With an adult witness, defense attorneys might be tempted to ask a thousand questions about the abuse itself simply because forcing the witness to answer such invasive questions nonstop was one of the best ways to scare a witness off from testifying later. But courts were more willing to use the deposition of a minor who decided not to testify, understanding the stress that testifying at trial put on a young child. Especially if the child would be asked questions about sexual abuse.

Even so.

“The thing is,” Matt went on, listening carefully to Samuel’s heartbeat, “one of their goals might be to wear you down. To the point where you’re too tired to keep things straight. Or even to the point where you just want to stop the whole proceeding.”

“I won’t do that,” Samuel said stubbornly.

“All we’re saying is, be prepared.”

~

Matt volunteered to walk Samuel and Hannah out, and told Foggy he might as well grab lunch, too. Karen got back just as Matt was escorting Hannah and Samuel outside, but and he didn’t know where she’d been but didn’t stop to ask. Better to focus on Hannah and Samuel, though he kept the conversation light.

He could admit that all of this (getting lunch instead of going back to the office, avoiding Karen, talking about happier things) was, for once, for his own sake. Between listening to Samuel’s therapy notes and thinking about what’d be like for the kid to actually be deposed, Matt felt…frayed.

Maybe Hannah and Samuel felt the same. Matt asked about their Christmas traditions, and learned that they annually drove around looking at Christmas lights, sharing strong opinions about what kinds of decorations were best. Then they’d go home and take turns hiding one special present not under the tree but somewhere else in the house for the other to find. It was a race, Samuel explained, very seriously, and the stakes were high: whoever found their present first got to choose the Christmas music playlist.

Sure that Hannah had come up with the tradition, Matt found himself smiling. It was the kind of creativity he recognized from his early years with his dad, the kind of creativity inspired in a parent who had little in the material sense to offer to make something special.

“Anyway.” There was a small smile in Hannah’s voice, too, as she tugged Samuel closer to her. “We should get going; we’ve taken up enough of your time.”

Matt slid his hands into his pockets. “Enjoy the lights for me, Samuel.”

The kid tilted his head. “If I tell you about them, can you picture them, maybe?”

Matt raised his eyebrows. “Depends on how good you are at describing them.”

Samuel’s chin lifted. Challenge accepted. Matt grinned.

Finally, though, Hannah pulled him down the sidewalk to their car. Matt was still grinning while he debated which restaurant to go to, but he stopped when he caught Karen’s voice from inside the building.

“I think something’s wrong with Matt.”

Her voice was low, a fervent whisper. Normally, Matt took that cue to not listen. People were allowed their secrets, and much as he hated when Foggy and Karen kept secrets from him, he couldn’t exactly blame them, either.

But somehow, everything that had happened between him and Karen recently made it all too easy to justify eavesdropping. Forgetting about lunch, he stepped closer to the door, cocked his head, and held his breath.

“You really wanna talk about this here?” Foggy whispered back after a short silence.

“You _just said_ he’s getting lunch, Foggy. He’s not coming back any time soon. And we need to talk about this. I mean, you agree that something’s wrong, right?”

“I dunno.” Foggy sounded uncomfortable.

Karen scoffed. “Don’t give me that, it’s _obvious_. You know what it is, don’t you? You’ve keeping the secret for him?”

“No,” Foggy protested quickly. “I have no idea, he hasn’t told me anything.”

“So you have talked about it!”

If Matt weren’t busy silently panicking, he’d be impressed with the way she set that up. She’d make an amazing lawyer. In fact, he wished she’d go that route, rather than using her investigative skills to dig at Matt. He should walk in there, feign ignorance, just to interrupt.

But if he did that, Karen would certainly restart the conversation at the first opportunity, somewhere he couldn’t overhear, and then he’d have no idea what theories she was building.

“…Okay,” Foggy admitted reluctantly, “I’ll concede something’s wrong. But I swear, I don’t know what it is.”

“I, um…I might have an idea.”

Matt’s heart pounded too loudly in his ears.

“We were on a date and something kind of happened.”

“What?” Foggy asked.

“I’m…not sure I should say.”

Matt let out a slow breath.

“But it made me wonder if, um…” Karen hesitated. “Look, I thought he’s just been upset because Daredevil wasn’t able to protect Samuel, you know? I asked him about it, and he just told me the whole case is too connected to his faith. Which, like, okay, that makes _sense_ , but I just don’t think that’s the whole story. You know?”

“I dunno.” Foggy started shuffling papers around on his desk, like he was hoping to spontaneously stumble across an excuse to leave the conversation. But he didn’t _need_ an excuse. He should just tell Karen he didn’t feel comfortable talking about this when Matt wasn’t there.

Matt gritted his teeth. Why didn’t he?

Karen took a quick breath. “I just…I wonder…has Matt ever indicated that he may have been abused? You know, um…sexually?”

Matt closed his eyes tight.

“Uh, no?” Foggy was still shuffling his papers. “I actually asked about that a few weeks ago. I thought maybe something with Stick…but he said no.”

“Oh.” Karen sounded…well, she didn’t sound convinced.

“And, I dunno, I’ve never gotten any red flags or anything. I mean, aside from Matt just being…Matt.”

The hell was _that_ supposed to mean?

“No offense, Foggy, but you didn’t get any red flags that he was a ninja with supersenses.”

“Hey,” Foggy snapped.

It was kind of absurd that Foggy would be offended over that point when he was still refusing to just end this conversation.

Karen kept going. “I just mean, it wouldn’t exactly shock me if there was some other big part of Matt’s life that you never knew was there.”

Who said it was a big part?

Foggy finally stopped messing with his papers; fabric shifted like he was crossing his arms over his chest. “What do you want from me, Karen? I told you, I don’t know anything.”

“Okay, but…” There was a sound as Karen took a step closer. “Can you think about it a little harder? I’ve been doing some digging, but if this got covered up…or even if he reported it, it’s not like his name would be public record. I’ve tried looking for incident reports where the victim was blind, since I figure that would narrow it down, but everything that came up had some obvious reason why it wasn’t Matt, so I just think—”

 _That_ was what she’d been up to since their date?

“Matt said he’d tell me,” Foggy interrupted firmly. “He said he’d tell me if something happened. I think we should leave it up to him.”

Matt was struck by a strange mix of gratefulness and guilt.

“Matt said he’d never lie to me again,” Karen shot back, “and then he let me think he was dead.”

“He didn’t _outright_ lie to you, though,” Foggy pointed out hesitantly. “He just…withheld the truth.”

“Would you stop being a lawyer about this?” she hissed. “He’s our _friend_ , and something’s obviously seriously wrong, and we won’t be able to help if we don’t even know what it is. In fact, we might accidentally make things _worse_. You ever think about that?”

Silence from Foggy.

“Of course not,” she muttered. “You always want everything to be okay, and you always act like if we all just pretend like everything’s normal, it really will be. But that’s not how people work. It’s _definitely_ not how Matt works.”

Wow.

Matt should leave. He’d gotten what he needed, clearly Karen hadn’t actually figured out the truth, and listening to this was just making him angry.

“You’re saying I’m sticking my head in the sand?” Foggy sounded like he was getting angry, now, too.

“I’m saying your default mode when there’s complicated interpersonal conflict is to try to distract everyone and make everyone feel happy even though that does literally _nothing_ to solve the _actual problem_.”

Silence.

Matt should leave. Immediately. But his feet might as well be bolted to the ground.

“…Sorry,” Karen said quietly.

Foggy just sighed.

“Look.” She took another step, closer to Foggy. “Whatever happened, I figure it probably was before he started being Daredevil. I mean, maybe not…going out and fighting bad guys, I guess all it would take is one wrong move…” She paused. “But I don’t think that’s what it was. I think it happened earlier, before he was as experienced or before he was trained at all. Or maybe just when he was too young to realize what was happening. I mean, Catholic orphanages aren’t known for their sex ed, are they?”

Thought she had him all figured out, did she? Like he was just another story she was putting together. She poked at Fisk’s past and she poked at Frank Castle’s and now she was poking at his.

Stupid of him to think she wouldn’t treat him the exact same way, really. 

There was a harsh creaking as Foggy stood up from his chair. “I really don’t think this is something we should be talking about. Matt would be furious if he knew.”

“Just because Matt likes keeping secrets doesn’t mean it’s good for him! We’re his _friends_ , we’re supposed to—”

“ _Respect his boundaries_ ,” Foggy cut in.

“ _Help_ him with whatever’s going on!”

“Not by investigating behind his back.”

“What do you suggest, then?” Karen demanded. “Let’s hear it.”

“Why don’t you try talking to him?”

“I…” Karen stopped, then started again. “I don’t think that’ll work.”

“Why not?”

Matt tensed anew.

“It just—it just won’t, okay? I think it has to be you.”

“You’re his girlfriend,” Foggy reminded her.

“Will you talk to him, Foggy?” Her voice took on a pleading tone, the kind of tone that always made Matt want to drop everything and fix whatever was wrong. “I just…I hate knowing he’s not okay when I don’t even know how to help.”

Foggy sighed again. “Yeah, you and me both.”

“Just talk to him,” she said softly. “Please.”

Matt couldn’t hear Foggy’s response, which must have been nonverbal. All he heard was Foggy suddenly heading out into the lobby.

Matt flinched away from the front door, ducking back out onto the street and rounding the corner to take cover at a bus stop, waiting for his heart to stop beating so fast.

~

When he was calm enough (and brave enough) to return to the office (with steaming bags of takeout that made his stomach curdle at the heavy smell), neither Karen nor Foggy were in. Good. He needed to focus, and he couldn’t do that if he was monitoring them. Matt grabbed coffee—he’d need the energy when he went out tonight—and sat on the edge of his chair at his desk, forcing his attention to lock on his laptop instead of straying to catch when Karen or Foggy returned. He couldn’t afford to let them distract him. With the deposition coming up so soon, Samuel’s case had to take precedence over…everything else.

So Matt pulled up a fresh document and started typing away, building a list of questions for Samuel’s deposition, testing different configurations of topics, making sure he covered all the bases and then some.

He focused too well, so well that he jumped when Foggy’s voice cut through his concentration. “Hey, Matt?”

Matt stopped typing, lifting his head. “Yeah?”

Foggy’s heart beat a nervous pattern. “Can I talk to you?”

Wait, was this it? Already? The conversation Foggy promised Karen he’d have?

Foggy’s words certainly didn’t match his furtiveness. Actually, he kind of sounded like someone was holding a gun to his head.

“About what?” Matt asked, trying to sound neutral and disinterested and pressed for time and whatever other way might get Foggy to leave this for another day.

No such luck. “Um, you know, just…checking in. Partner to partner.”

Matt told himself to take Foggy at face value. Nursing suspicion, he’d just piss himself off again. “Well, I’ve got a list of deposition questions for Samuel. I want to make sure we put the questions about the abuse itself in the middle.” This wasn’t like a direct examination at trial, which needed to be flashy and play on the sympathies of a jury. In a direct exam, he’d save the most powerful (awful, gut-wrenching) stuff for the end. Let Geary’s attorney try to salvage the emotional mess. Here, though, he didn’t want to leave Samuel shaky and vulnerable right before the cross-examination started.

“Cool, cool,” Foggy said vaguely, leaning against the doorframe. Was he intentionally blocking the only exit? His hands fidgeted in his pockets; Matt could hear his skin sliding back and forth against the fabric of his slacks. “Awesome. I’ve got some ideas of my own, but you know the kid better.”

Matt’s stomach flipped like he’d missed a step on the stairs.

“So, um, I was thinking,” Foggy went on. “Samuel did a great job talking to us, that one time, but I’m trying to figure out how we can help him be more comfortable with the other lawyers. You know?”

“Yeah,” Matt said automatically.

“And, I dunno, I guess I just keep thinking about how I’m still kinda a stranger to Samuel. I don’t even know what sport he likes. I mean, maybe we can bond over baseball? I don’t even know. Do you know?”

Matt frowned, trying to figure out Foggy’s play here. “Uh…no.”

“Hasn’t come up when you two are hanging out?”

Matt wanted to correct the verb _hanging out_ , but he wasn’t sure what description would be more accurate, and he needed to stop overthinking all of this anyway. “Uh, no. It hasn’t.”

“Damn,” Foggy said idly. “I mean, are you saying you and Samuel really spend all this time just bonding over being Catholic? Because the kid doesn’t seem super…religious.”

Oh. So _that_ was the angle. “We talk about a lot of things.” Evasiveness seemed like the best response.

Until Foggy pushed. “Like what? I mean…anything I should know about?”

Normally, Matt wouldn’t give up on evasiveness as a strategy so quickly. But knowing that Foggy had been sent here on an investigative mission by Karen, he doubted that would work. Besides, he was, frankly, irritated. He didn’t have to play along. He narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“What?”

“Why? What are you getting at?” Matt didn’t bother sounding neutral anymore. “You’re clearly after something. Just spit it out.”

Foggy at least had the decency to drop the act. “Karen’s worried about you.”

“I know,” Matt said shortly. “I heard you.”

Foggy gulped audibly. “You…heard… _me?_ Like, just now? Or…”

Matt pushed back from his desk; clearly he wouldn’t be getting any work done right now. “You and Karen. Earlier.”

“Shit,” Foggy muttered under his breath.

“Heard that too,” Matt said, not feeling particularly charitable.

Foggy took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, man.”

“Why? Because I heard you?” Matt resisted the urge to stand up. Sitting down meant he could try to trick his body into believing that he wasn’t actually in a fight right now. “But if I didn’t, it would’ve been completely fine?”

“No!” Foggy said instantly. “I’m sorry for talking about you when you weren’t around. How…how much did you hear?”

“Why does that matter? So you can figure out how best to spin this?”

Foggy fell quiet.

Matt bit his tongue to keep from taking the words back.

“Is it true?” Foggy finally managed.

Was he seriously asking that _now? Here?_ “Is what true?” Matt demanded, silently daring him. _Say it._

“What Karen said,” Foggy mumbled, shuffling his weight, voice and body language screaming his discomfort.

“Which part?” Matt clenched his fists under the table.

 _Say it, Foggy._ Even though Matt had no idea how to even respond if he did.

“She thinks…she thinks maybe you, um, maybe…” Foggy took another quick breath, and then it all came out in a rush: “She thinks you were sexually abused.”

Time slowed down. Matt was poised on the edge of a cliff and the urge rose up within, telling him to stop thinking and just _jump_. Believe that Foggy would catch him.

But what if he didn’t? What if he _couldn’t?_

Fear shot through Matt and he startled himself by barking out a cold laugh.

Foggy immediately fell over himself backtracking, rubbing a groove into the back of his neck. “Yeah, I thought it was stupid, sorry, I just…she was really upset, I promised I’d ask, I thought it was the best way to get her to…calm down,” he finished weakly. “Sorry.”

“Tell her to ask me herself,” Matt bit out, not even meaning the words he was saying. “At least she’d get to the point and not waste so much time.”

“Yeah, man, sorry. I just didn’t want to…I don’t know. I know you’d tell me if anything…you know.”

Suddenly, Matt didn’t feel guilty that Foggy still thought that. It was nice.

Foggy took a step backwards, partway out the door. “So…we’re good?”

“Yeah,” Matt lied, starting to reach for his earbuds or something when he realized his hands were shaking. He kept them under the desk and gave Foggy a forced smile instead.

“Seriously, I’ll tell her to just go to you next time.”

“Or tell her to leave it alone.”

“…Yeah,” Foggy agreed, not sounding at all convinced that it would make a difference. “Anyway. Uh. I’ll get back to you on those questions for Samuel, okay?”

Matt just nodded, holding his breath until Foggy left. Then he listened until Foggy’s footsteps brought him all the way to his own office. He heard Foggy’s chair squeak as he sat down. He heard Foggy’s shaky exhale, his muttered, “Damnit, Nelson.” Foggy gave himself a second, and then Matt heard typing start up.

Matt clenched his jaw. His hands still trembled, courtesy of the leftover adrenaline that had flooded his system, and his stomach was too knotted for him to convince himself he was relieved that Foggy had given up.

It just…it was so unbearably _easy_. To get Foggy to believe what he wanted to believe anyway. Why? Because Foggy was afraid of the mere thought that his partner, his best friend, was hurt like that? Because Foggy wasn’t ready to deal with these kinds of wounds? Because Foggy was so desperate for them to live their simple, sunshine-and-rainbows life of doing good and making money?

And each conversation like this, they all just made it so much harder to ever tell the truth. How many times had they circled this now? Did Foggy think if he just kept poking, eventually Matt would get worn down enough to admit the truth? Was that what Foggy wanted? Like all he wanted was to hear the facts, no matter if forcing Matt to say it out loud would tear everything apart?

Or did he think getting Matt to say it out loud would magically change anything?

If only, _if only_ it were that simple.

Matt let his hands rest on his inactive braille display, closing his eyes to feel the last tremors slowly fade. The regret and the _loneliness_ now taking the place of anger and adrenaline had come far too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Proverbs 20:19 ~ "Whoever goes about slandering reveals secrets; therefore do not associate with a simple babbler."
> 
> So, I DON'T think Karen is a "simple babbler" or a slanderer as the verse suggests, but I do think she has a tendency to ignore other people's boundaries when she thinks something's seriously wrong. Not all the time (or else she would've discovered Daredevil way sooner), but definitely moreso than Foggy. Foggy, I think, has the opposite harmful tendency: preferring to ignore problems that aren't immediately affecting him. Again, not all the time, but still. I wanted to explore these contrasting approaches and how they might play out with someone like Matt who is just not ready to talk about what happened to him.
> 
> In other news, I'm mostly sure that this will end up at 33 chapters. Which means there's plenty of room left for angst, but also for comfort!


	21. Psalm 51:7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is basically nothing but dialogue and I don't super love it but the next chapter is really exciting so I'm just gonna go ahead and post...

The rest of the day passed minute by minute, hour by hour, filled with nothing but work. He didn’t talk to Karen or Foggy. And he didn’t slow down long enough to give himself time to think about where his life was going if he kept this up.

The only problem was, he had a session with Dr. Dorner after work. On the one hand, he needed to keep going if only so he could focus on Samuel’s case without his own issues sabotaging things—more than they already were. On the other, it was harder to avoid thinking about existential topics with Dr. Dorner. That was the point of therapy, probably, but he hadn’t anticipated how hard it would be.

He could skip. He wanted to skip.

But then what? Go to the gym and beat a punching bag until his knuckles were raw, just to turn around and do the same thing with criminals tonight?

If there was _one thing_ he could get right today, it was sucking it up and going to therapy. Besides, Dr. Dorner never forced him to talk about anything specific. He didn’t even have to tell her about Karen. After all, there was nothing Dr. Dorner or anyone could do to fix that train wreck.

Today they were talking about blame. Self-blame, actually. He’d actually been the one to raise the issue, saying he wanted to be prepared to help Samuel work through it. She was pretending the topic was only relevant in regards to Samuel, and he was pretending to believe her.

“There are two main types of self-blame we see,” she was saying, she seated in her chair with her legs crossed at the knee, he sitting on the edge of the couch, hands clasped together as he listened. “You’ve got blame directed at actions, and blame directed at character.”

“Like, it’s my fault because I did something wrong, or it’s my fault because something is wrong with me?” Matt asked.

“Exactly. Technically, the first one is guilt and the second is shame. Anyway, Samuel might be struggling with one or both, and it’s important to help him identify which one.”

“How?”

“Asking questions about what his priest said is a good way to start. But blame is complicated. Our sense of self is usually heavily influenced by our parents, at least initially. Even if the priest emphasizes one kind of blame, the way Samuel was raised to think about himself might make him interpret it differently.”

“Right.”

“Maybe you could model that for him?” Dr. Dorner suggested, her first hint today of making the session about Matt instead of Samuel. “Break down for him where your own sense of guilt or shame comes from.”

“I don’t know,” he said automatically. ( _Why_ was his first assumption always that he didn’t understand himself?) “Wait,” he said a second later. “I think…okay. I know my dad didn’t make me feel guilt or shame as a kid. But…I know now that I’m disappointing him.”

There was a frown in Dr. Dorner’s voice. “How so?”

Matt realized belatedly he’d said too much. “Just…he had certain expectations for me as an adult. I’m not meeting them. But as a kid, I _was_ on track to meet them. So I didn’t feel guilt or shame back then.”

“Did you feel pressure?” she suggested.

Matt cocked his head, considering. “I guess. Not a lot, but…yeah. My, uh, my grandmother, she said I had the devil inside.”

“…Oh,” Dr. Dorner said, clearly trying not to seem surprised.

Matt shrugged. “And then, you know, the nuns weren’t exactly…forgiving. Or patient. I mean…” He instantly felt guilty (which was either ironic or indicative; he wasn’t sure). “Sometimes. There were exceptions. But then there was this…this guy. He…mentored me. And he was real big on informing me that I was worthless to him if I wasn’t, you know…good enough.” Matt was on a roll now, which was odd; he normally hated talking about his kind of thing. “And then, of course, there was Father Sheridan. He weaponized guilt like no one I’ve ever known.”

“How?”

“Confession,” Matt answered quietly. “I told him everything I was ashamed of, everything I’d ever done that I knew was wrong. And he was the only one I could go to for absolution. And he knew it.”

She nodded once, slowly, and didn’t speak.

Matt went on almost robotically, mouth moving on its own while his mind remembered the sharp smell of pine. “Every day, it was a waiting game to see if I’d been good enough to earn forgiveness. I was always waiting for his verdict. There was never a point when I could just _know_ my sin was behind me. The only thing I knew…”

_God must flinch when He sees you._

“The only thing I knew was how guilty I was.”

“And has anyone come along since to tell you otherwise?”

He shrugged. “Kind of.” Father Lantom was certainly one to emphasize mercy and grace over judgment, but nor was he one to offer false comfort. He did not shy away from the doctrine of original sin, or sin in general. “My current priest, I think, would say I didn’t do anything wrong with Sheridan. I think he’d say I was just…being manipulated. But I can’t help thinking it’s not that simple.”

“That’s not surprising.”

“It’s not?”

“Survivors of abuse often blame themselves,” she explained softly. “One reason is that when something is wrong, we need _someone_ to blame. We need to be angry. But if it’s not safe to act on anger towards an abuser, we might direct that anger at ourselves.” Her voice went up a bit at the end, like a question.

Matt was inclined to think he was more likely to direct that anger outwards, at everyone else _but_ the priest.

“Not resonating with you?” Dr. Dorner asked.

“I don’t…think so,” he said tentatively. But that felt wrong even as he said it. _Was_ he angry at himself? He was suddenly second-guessing his conclusion.

But Dr. Dorner was already moving on. “Another reason we blame ourselves is because that lets us feel less out of control. Especially if the abuse happens when we’re young, and especially if the abuse is perpetrated by someone we trust. See, if I’m forced to conclude that the _abuser_ is bad, then my trust is broken, and the whole world seems scarier. But if I believe instead that _I_ am the problem, then that gives me the illusion of control. Because now I just have to…be better.”

Oh. _Oh_. Matt narrowed his eyes. “After…after what happened with Sheridan, I did try to be better. Or if I did something wrong, I didn’t confess it. And sure enough, Father Lantom never…never treated me like that. So I guess that just seemed to prove that what happened with Sheridan really was my fault.”

Dr. Dorner’s voice took on that slightly approving tone the way it always did when Matt volunteered information and made his own inferences. “That belief would’ve been solidified. But now you see more clearly. You know the truth. You can shed all that blame you never deserved.”

“Okay, but…how?”

“It’s a process, but there are some strategies that can help, if you want to learn them.”

“I don’t know. I mean, I know it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t really know what was happening, I didn’t…” He trailed off.

“You’re smart,” Dr. Dorner acknowledged, “and you’re clearly educated about trauma in general. But even if you know a lie is a lie, it might still _feel_ true sometimes. What do you think?”

“It…” Matt ran his thumb over the crack in the leather couch. “It sometimes feels true,” he admitted quietly.

Dr. Dorner wasn’t fazed. “Okay. Do you want to learn some things that might help you make it feel less true?”

Yes. He could turn around and talk to Samuel about it, in case Samuel hadn’t gotten there with his own therapist yet. Matt nodded.

“Excellent. So for someone as analytical as you, I think cognitive therapy would be most helpful. The goal is to evaluate your patterns of thoughts, and from there influence your emotions. So we can start by just being more mindful of those thoughts, especially the ones that relate to guilt or shame. Can you give me some examples of those types of thoughts that you find yourself thinking?”

He couldn’t explain that it was easier to feel responsible since he’d been trained; even Karen had thought that, but he couldn’t talk about the training at all. He settled on something else. “I kept going back. I didn’t have to. I chose to.”

Clasping her hands, she leaned forward with her elbows on her knees. “And so you think that, because you chose to go back, it was your fault?”

“Maybe not in so many words, but…that’s the idea, yeah.”

“Okay. Identifying the thought is the first step. The next is to try to figure out where the thought came from. You already have some experience with this, since we’ve talked about triggers. Can you think of what triggers these thoughts? Is it certain people, or experiences…?”

Matt grimaced. “This case.”

She nodded. “Sometimes, once we identify triggers, we can avoid them. But if your only way to deal with triggering things is avoidance, you’ll end up pushed out of spaces where you might otherwise be able to thrive. Do you think this case is something you can or should avoid?”

“No,” Matt said without hesitation.

She paused. “To tell you the truth, I imagine you’d say that about most things. So I have to ask: are you sure?”

“Yes. I can’t leave my partner to deal with this on his own. Especially since he doesn’t know Samuel as well as I do.”

“Okay. Since this trigger isn’t something you think you can avoid, what you can do is try to prepare emotionally ahead of time. Build up resilience, so to speak. Whenever you have to do something for the case, try to do things that bring you inner peace first. Can you think of some ideas?”

“Meditation,” he answered promptly. “Prayer, sometimes. And, uh…exercise.” He did not elaborate. “So after I’ve found, uh, inner peace, or whatever…” He tried not to grimace; it sounded like Stick’s fortune-cookie wisdom. “What next?”

“The next step is to analyze your initial thought. If it’s wrong, identify why it’s wrong. That doesn’t mean you’re naïve or unintelligent; we all have incorrect thoughts sometimes. We just have to find the objectivity necessary to evaluate them.”

This part sounded better. More logical. “So if I feel like what happened to me was my fault because I kept coming back, how do I evaluate that?”

But she didn’t spell it out for him. Instead, she leaned back in her seat. “Why don’t you give it a try?”

Fair enough. He thought about it. “Well, I…I didn’t go back because I wanted to. I went back because I had to.”

“Why? What were you looking for?”

“Forgiveness. Absolution.” Matt pressed his lips together. “And he was the only priest. Which means…I didn’t have any other options. Or at least, I thought I didn’t.”

She nodded. “And so?”

“And so it wasn’t my fault. It couldn’t have been.”

There was a smile in her voice now. “Perfect! Well done. Now, what can you say about how he tried to make you feel guilty?”

Matt frowned. “Well, I am sinful.”

“Okay, but is it possible to be a good person, even if you sin?”

Maybe it depended on what kind of sin they were talking about. Or maybe not. “I don’t know if that’s how it works.”

“I’m not religious, but it sounds like your current priest is a good one, so he might be worth talking to about this. In the meantime…” She leaned forward again. “Let me just tell you that no matter how much you sin, you don’t deserve what happened to you.”

Matt sighed.

“You know what I appreciate about you, Matt? You don’t take what people say at face value. You need evidence. The problem is, Sheridan used your beliefs to try to manipulate you, and I don’t know enough about your beliefs to show you why he’s wrong.”

“You’re not just gonna tell me my faith is the problem?” Matt asked dryly. He’d been expecting that for days now, honestly.

She shook her head, earrings clinking together. “Your faith is important to you, and I would never tell you to throw it away—even though I’ll admit it _does_ complicate things. If you weren’t religious, we could just focus on the psychology of it. But you are religious, and I can’t ignore that. I can do some research into it, if you want, and meanwhile you can talk to your priest, if you’re up for it. Then we can exchange notes and see if we can make sense of it all. How does that sound?”

Matt wasn’t sure there was a point of agreement to be found here. Still. “It’s worth a try.”

If she was upset by his less than enthusiastic response, she didn’t show it. “So once you’ve identified your harmful thoughts, and analyzed where they come from and why they’re wrong, the final step is to replace them with something helpful. Something positive. Reframe the story to be about how strong you are to have survived that or how determined you are to keep healing. Remind yourself of all the things you love about yourself.”

Okay, no. That couldn’t be right. “Isn’t that being proud, though? Pride is a sin.”

She hesitated. “Again, I’m not religious. But I’d say God wants you to acknowledge and appreciate all the good things about you. Didn’t He make you? I’m sure God absolutely loves those good things about you. So there’s nothing wrong with you appreciating them, too.”

Matt wasn’t so sure of that. It sounded nice, but just because something sounded nice didn’t make it true. He’d have to ask Father Lantom about that.

“Maybe that’s something you want to talk to your priest about, too?” Dr. Dorner suggested, but doubtfully, like she didn’t think anything Father Lantom could say could counter the truth of her word.

“Maybe,” Matt answered noncommittally.

The clock on her wall suddenly chimed, signaling the end of their session. Dr. Dorner didn’t hurry him out, though; she never did. “Well, Matt, can you work on practicing these steps through the next week? See if you can start changing your thoughts? But remember that it’s okay if you catch yourself in your old thinking patterns. That’s normal. Be patient with yourself. Makes sense?”

He wasn’t _great_ at that. “Sure,” he said anyway.

“You have a lot of work ahead of you, and it won’t be easy. But I think I know you well enough by now to know you’re not someone who backs down from a challenge. Just remember, your happiness is worth it.”

More like his ability to be reliable for Samuel was worth it, but all right.

She wasn’t done. “At the same time, remember that your happiness is not the goal. The goal is peace, because that’s something internal. Inner peace can coexist with frustration, anger, even sadness. Which is good, because working through this will bring all sorts of other emotions. But it’s okay, because peace goes deeper. Does that make sense?”

Somewhat. Matt didn’t spend much time chasing happiness anyway. Maybe because he already knew how fleeting it could be?

Peace, though. Maybe peace was something he could fight for.

~

Going to therapy had definitely been the right decision. Today was such a bad day to begin with, but therapy helped, it really did. Simply making the choice to go even when he didn’t want to felt good. And then therapy itself was…well, it was _work_ , but a good kind of work.

In fact, it felt kind of like working out. Yeah, he felt sore afterwards, but it was worth it to know he’d overcome some previous limitation. This really wasn’t so different. It was just mental rather than physical.

The sun set early enough these days that it was already dark, the air around him cold without any warmth from the sun, but it was too early for crime to start up. Not to mention that crime tended to decrease with the cold anyway. All of that led Matt considering whether to push himself a little further tonight.

Honestly, after the way Karen set Foggy after him, confessing how he’d hurt her was the last thing he wanted to do. But he had to, didn’t he?

Matt arrived at Clinton Church shortly after evening mass ended, slipping past the exiting congregants to stand in the back of the lobby. Maggie was in the next building over, working with the kids, but Father Lantom was only a few feet away, talking with a parishioner.

After a few minutes, Father Lantom whispered a prayer with the person he’d been speaking with, then made his way across the room to Matthew. “Good to see you.”

“Wish I could say the same,” Matt quipped.

Father Lantom was completely unruffled. “Latte? Confession?”

Matt wet his lips. “Confession. Please.”

Father Lantom’s head tilted. What, did he think Matt had come to explain the thing he’d been unable to talk about last time?

Matt hoped he wouldn’t be disappointed.

The priest led the way to the confessional, sitting on his own side first. Matt gritted his teeth before opening the door on his side. It didn’t use to be this hard, stepping into this wooden box. But he couldn’t let that stop him.

Seated on the wooden bench, Matt took a second to breathe in deeply, to center himself in the here and now. He smelled wood and dust, and the lingering perfume of whoever sought confession before him. He did not smell sharp pine or sweat or sex.

Matt bowed his head. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been, uh…three weeks, I think, since my last confession. I accuse myself of the following sin.” He took another deep breath. “I hurt someone I—someone I love. What I did, I didn’t do to hurt her. But I did it knowing it would hurt her. I was trying to do the right thing for her, but…now I’m not so sure.”

“How could hurting her be the right thing for her?”

“Because she wanted more from me than I could give her. And the longer I tried to be that for her, the worse it would hurt when…when it fell apart.”

“Matthew, are you talking about a relationship?”

Much preferring to keep confession vague and metaphorical, Matt grimaced. “Yeah,” he finally admitted, reluctantly.

“Karen?” Father Lantom guessed.

“Yeah.”

“Can you tell me more about what you did?”

Matt sorted through the possible answers in his mind. “We, uh…we were dating. Trying to, anyway. But I can’t. So I never should’ve asked her out. It was reckless, and selfish, and—”

“Why can’t you date her? If you don’t mind me giving my personal opinion, she seems like quite the catch.”

Matt couldn’t help wondering if Father Lantom and Maggie had been gossiping about Karen together. “I just…that’s not the point. The point is, I shouldn’t have put her in that position. Now she’s confused, and hurt, and worried, and it’s my fault.”

Father Lantom’s quiet sigh was the only sign that he disagreed with Matt’s conclusion. “You clearly care about your friend, and you’re clearly sorry for whatever hurt you may have caused her. For your penance, I want you to say pray the thirty-second Psalm every day for a week.”

What? That was it? But he’d hurt her. And the _reason_ he’d hurt her was because he’d failed to deal with his own problems before they could spill over to her. And the reason he had those problems in the first place was because he’d—no, no, Dr. Dorner said it wasn’t his fault. _He knew_ it wasn’t his fault. Sheridan made his choice; the blame rested on him.

Matt was sick of having to convince himself of that.

He shook his head. “That’s not enough.”

Father Lantom sounded surprised. “Why not?”

“You don’t even know how bad I hurt her. You don’t know what you’re forgiving.”

“God does,” Father Lantom murmured. “And God’s forgiveness is promised.”

Matt blinked. “What?”

“The first chapter of the book of First John tells us that, if we confess our sins, God is faithful and just to forgive us, and cleanse us from all unrighteousness. In other words, God is staking His own faithfulness and justice on our forgiveness. Once we put our faith in Christ, God has to forgive us, or else He wouldn’t be faithful. He wouldn’t be just.”

Matt had never heard it explained that way. “I don’t…I don’t _feel_ forgiven.”

“You may well not,” Father Lantom replied bluntly. “Our feelings don’t always align with what is true. But you don’t have to let your feelings reign over you. It’s a matter of reminding ourselves of truth, again and again, no matter what our thoughts and feelings might say.”

“Father,” Matt said quietly. “Do you ever get…tired?”

“All the time.” There was a pause. “We’re commanded to rest, you know. When’s the last time you tried it?”

Physical rest was one thing. Not that Matt was great at it, but at least it happened sometimes. “I—I mean, do you ever get tired of…fighting your own thoughts?”

Father Lantom made a soft sound, an outward breath of understanding. “Yes. All the time.”

“How do you rest from _that?_ ”

“I read Scripture.”

Of course he’d say that.

“You used to do that yourself,” Father Lantom mentioned.

Matt managed a chagrinned smile. “I have enough accusations in my own head, Father. I don’t really need to seek out more.”

“Accusations?”

“Just…” Slumping forward, Matt clasped his hands behind his neck. “I can’t do anything right. _Anything_. I can barely even manage to feel _guilty_ for anything anymore.” Even coming here to confess breaking Karen’s heart was more out of a sense of duty than anything else.

Father Lantom’s heartrate sped up. “Do you feel other things?”

Oh. “I’m not…I’m not depressed, Father.”

A pause. “All due respect, Matthew, but you may not be the best judge of that.”

Fair. “I…actually have a therapist,” Matt admitted. “I’m not trying to replace you or anything, it’s just…”

Some things were easier to untangle without religion muddying it up. Dr. Dorner was right about that.

“I’m not offended. In fact, I’m glad.”

Matt blinked. “You are?”

“The Church and the field of psychology have had a rocky history,” Father Lantom acknowledged, a dry smile in his voice. “I’m still not sure about Freudian or Jungian theory. It’s a little…out there, for me. But all fields of learning point towards truth, and truth belongs to God.”

“You’re not afraid she’s corrupting me or something? My therapist, I mean.”

“Do you think she is?” Father Lantom asked levelly.

“She’s helping.”

“Good.” Wood creaked as the priest leaned back in his seat. “I’ve had some parishioners go to therapists who were, well, less helpful. Seemed to me that these therapists let their own problems and histories taint things, especially with regards to religion. They, I imagine, could do a great deal of damage without intending to.”

“Mine isn’t like that.”

“That’s good to hear.” Father Lantom shifted in his seat. “In that case, can we go back to what you said? About accusation?”

“Oh, uh…” Matt hadn’t really meant to use that word. In fact, it’d been a relief when Father Lantom seemed too distracted to address it. “I just…I’m always striving, but it feels like…like everything I do gets undone. Like my best efforts are worthless. Or I just make things worse.”

“And reading Scripture makes you feel this way even more?”

“I guess so.” To be fair, it had been months now since he’d even tried.

“Hmm.” Father Lantom’s voice was thoughtful. “Fighting evil does feel like a never-ending battle, sometimes. There are new discouragements every day. And it would be foolish to ignore the ways that we do indeed make things worse. But I’d like to challenge you to read the fifteenth chapter of the Gospel of John. Focus on the promise that, in your dependence on God, you _will_ bear fruit. It’s one of the passages I go to whenever I start convincing myself that my work is in vain.”

Matt blinked. “Why would you think that? You counsel people every day.”

“And you help people both day and night,” Father Lantom countered, “yet here we are.”

“So, is reading the chapter my penance?”

“I wasn’t aware you were still confessing?”

“Not reading Scripture is a sin, isn’t it?” Matt insisted.

To his surprise, the priest let out a small laugh. “Well, if you’re so eager to accuse _yourself_ , then all right. Read the chapter for penance.”

Matt opened his mouth, forehead creased, to protest that he wasn’t accusing himself. In fact, he was slightly offended that Father Lantom was treating the issue so lightly. At the same time, it was kind of reassuring that Father Lantom wanted him to read the chapter, but not actually as penance.

At any rate, Matt hadn’t managed to come up with a response by the time Father Lantom was prompting him to pray an Act of Contrition. Then, before Matt knew it, they were emerging from the confessional. Father Lantom put his hand on Matt’s shoulder, squeezing once, before going off to help someone else who needed his guidance. Matt listened to him go, wondering if Father Lantom really knew what it was like to feel that he wasn’t making a difference. The priest certainly didn’t seem to carry around the same brokenness as Matt.

Or was that naïve to think? There could be all sorts of tragedies in Father Lantom’s life that Matt knew nothing about, tragedies that were simply unable to keep the priest from being a beacon of hope in a dark world.

Matt stepped out of the church just as it started to snow. By the time the cab dropped him off at his apartment, the snow coated every surface of the city in a thin layer that would no doubt thicken by morning as the snow continued falling in large, fluffy flakes. Already it was muffling the sounds and smells of the city, soothing it. Matt stayed outside his apartment, letting the flakes land in his hair and on his nose and shoulders, breathing in its clean, crisp scent.

He wished he could see it. New York was magical in the snow, lights glittering off the crystals as pure white covered over all the filth and grime. It would be dirty again by morning, but for now, Matt closed his eyes and let himself linger in the presence of this fleeting picture of innocence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Psalm 51:7 ~ "Cleanse me with hyssop, and I will be clean; wash me, and I will be whiter than snow."
> 
> I wish all of you celebrating winter holidays a fantastic time!


	22. Psalm 57:4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SORRY I KNOW I'M SPAMMING YOU GUYS BUT IT'S WINTER BREAK AND I'M EXCITED.
> 
> Spoiler alert warnings: police brutality. Also, I refuse to believe that Matt actually had broken ribs during the Season 1 hallway fight, which is why I'm portraying these new injuries as so debilitating.

A few days later, the snow had turned dirty, then melted, leaving the city coated in slush that Matt was grateful he couldn’t see. The heater in their office hummed anxiously in its efforts to keep the place warm, and more often than not, Matt kept his coat on in his office, which was colder than the rest of the building since he kept the door closed.

He hadn’t reached out to Karen, and she hadn’t reached out to him. He effortlessly timed it so they were never out in the lobby at the same time, and she never lingered to meet him there. Matt wasn’t really talking to Foggy, either, although that was less intentional. The McCarty case was getting more complicated, and they had other cases to keep track of as well. Matt and Foggy mostly communicated through emails.

Every once in a while, Foggy would hover outside Matt’s door. But he never knocked, and he never came inside.

Today, Matt concentrated on going through the discovery from Geary and St. Matthew’s one last time while he waited for Foggy and Karen to leave. It was pretty much worthless, though. They’d turned over plenty of documents, sure, but it was all general stuff. Hardly anything specific to Geary, and nothing to do with reports of abuse or warnings regarding Geary’s behavior. Either the church really was as ignorant as they claimed to be, or someone had gone through to meticulously exclude any incriminating files. Matt and Foggy had already filed motions to compel, but the judge hadn’t been convinced that the other sides were actually hiding anything.

Matt reminded himself that this just meant they’d have to be creative with their depositions. Samuel’s would hold even more weight, and they were scheduled to depose Geary himself shortly afterwards. Matt couldn’t decide whether he was relieved or jealous that they’d decided Foggy would be the one to question the priest.

After Foggy and Karen finally left, Matt emerged from his office with his laptop bag slung over his shoulder. He locked up the main door and stepped out into the frigid night. The city was quiet. Maybe it would even be quiet later tonight. Which was the last thing Matt wanted, of course. He needed a fight, an excuse to run faster and hit harder.

But for now, for the walk back to his apartment, it was almost peaceful. To be fair, that was probably due to the presence of two police officers on the opposite street corner. One older, one younger. A rookie and a supervisor, probably? Plainclothes, too, although Matt could smell the precinct all over them. Not to mention the guns, handcuffs, batons, and pepper spray they had hidden under their jackets. They weren’t saying anything, just watching the scene. Matt couldn’t remember cops ever camping out there before, but he wasn’t complaining if this was the result.

Adjusting his laptop bag over his shoulder, he started walking towards home, swinging his cane idly in front of him, randomly casting his senses around for anything interesting. There was a couple on a date, fussing because they’d left their newborn home with a sitter for the first time. There was another couple, also on a date, teenagers. Both absolutely terrified. One of them reached for his glass of water and knocked it over. Matt’s mouth quirked upwards. A little farther down, things were quieter. The business were all closed, lights off. Just streetlights flickering overhead.

Matt cocked his head as he walked. The two cops were moving now. Following him, for the moment. Probably trying to make sure the blind guy didn’t get into trouble. Matt tried to squash his initial irritation. It was ableist, but well-intentioned.

They kept following him. Their pace quickened like they wanted to catch up.

All right. Well-intentioned they might be, but if they actually tried talking to him, Matt was going to put them in their place. What, they thought he needed an escort? Or maybe they’d recommend he call a cab instead of continuing down this deserted street by himself.

They got closer, but…why weren’t they saying anything yet? In fact—the hairs on the back of Matt’s neck rose—they seemed to be trying to stay as quiet as possible.

Tightening his grip on his cane, he slowed to a stop, taking out his phone and pretending to answer it, waiting to see what they would do.

They kept coming. Right at him. And now their hearts were thundering, adrenaline spiking.

“Remember,” the older whispered to the younger. “Leave him alive.”

Oh, shit _._

They were within reach. “Good evening, Mr. Murdock,” the older one said in a snarl, and grabbed Matt’s phone, throwing it on the ground and crushing it under his heel.

Shit, shit, shit.

Matt whirled, bringing up his cane, but the younger cop ducked underneath, grabbing the cane and twisting it at the exact same time as the older cop drove his knee up into Matt’s gut, crushing the wind out of him. Matt’s grip on the cane loosened. The younger cop ripped it away and tossed it over his shoulder. It rolled down the street.

_Shit._

Sucking in a breath, Matt started shouting. “Help! Help, someone’s—”

A fist in his throat cut off the noise. The younger cop laughed.

Instead of the usual clarity he found in fights, panic threatened to descend. He couldn’t fight back, couldn’t defend himself. Not unless he went all the way so they couldn’t tell anyone what they’d seen. Sometimes even comas didn’t last forever. There was no reason to reveal his senses if they weren’t gonna kill him, but that meant he’d have to just…take it.

A fist flew towards his face. Matt flinched, but didn’t dodge. It struck him in the jaw, the force of it knocking his head to the side. He bit his tongue and spat blood. The younger drew a baton, striking Matt hard in the gut. He doubled over, reaching out, trying to on-purpose-but-apparently-accidentally grab the baton. If he had a weapon, maybe he could say he got lucky, really lucky—

The baton lashed out again, this time going for Matt’s knees, and, _no_ , he couldn’t let them damage his knees. He side-stepped and tried to look like he was stumbling.

The older cop laughed, grabbed Matt by the back of his jacket, and jerked him closer. Straight into the cop’s elbow. The joint struck Matt’s solar plexus, sending a lightning strike of pain radiating through his body. When a fist slammed into the side of his face, it came out of nowhere. The stem of his glasses snapped and a shattered lens sliced the skin under his eyebrow.

Hands grabbed his shoulders, manhandling him. They punched him and hit him with the batons, again and again until Matt’s ears were ringing. Then they threw him to the ground, hard enough that he felt his laptop crack under him, hard enough for the ice-cold gravel to rip his suit, tearing his skin. He rolled away straight into a puddle of half-frozen slush, and then the younger jumped out to block his path. The cop’s laughter echoed across the street as he brought his boot down on Matt’s once-broken hand.

Matt screamed.

They silenced him with a fierce kick to the ribs. And another, and another. Matt tried to grab a foot or a leg, something, _anything_ , but they danced around him, just out of reach except when they lunged in to attack again and again until something snapped deep inside, followed by a pain, pure and white-hot, so fierce and unadulterated that everything else disappeared. He’d had cracked ribs before, enough to be familiar with that kind of pain, but this was different. This was _broken_. Cords of fire wrapped around his chest. Gasping, he curled into a ball, terrified of sharp, broken bone piercing his lungs.

But the kicks stopped. One of the cops, Matt couldn’t tell which anymore, crouched down. “Well, Mr. Murdock,” he whispered, the stale coffee on his breath wafting in Matt’s face. “Consider this a warning. You tell your partner, and you leave the priest case alone. You got that?”

Matt trembled.

The cop raised his voice to a yell. “I said, you _got that?_ ”

“I—” Matt tried to speak without using his lungs, “—got that.”

“Good. If you don’t, we’ll be back.” He spat across Matt’s cheek and stood up. “Let’s go,” he barked at his partner, who aimed a last kick at Matt, leaving a fresh bruise spreading across his back.

Matt curled up tighter, breathing as shallowly as possible, shivering. He needed to get up, needed to move, but he also just…needed a minute.

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed there, trying to process what just happened as blood dripped down from above his eye. But eventually a cold breeze blew over him, making him shiver even more and sending fresh pain arcing across his ribs. The rest of him wasn’t so bad, really, not in the grand scheme of things, but his _ribs_ ….

He forced himself to focus on the pain, to listen for every little shift in bone. There was…one broken rib, one cracked rib. Okay. It could be worse. Technically. Still, not even Matt could deny that there would be no limping home and sorting this out on his own. He needed help.

Couldn’t call Claire, though. His phone was smashed. And—his stomach twisted sickeningly—so was his laptop. Damn it, that was _expensive_ , and it had all his files, and—

Not the priority right now. He refocused. Couldn’t call Claire, and her apartment was all the way across town. He’d never make it without being noticed. Same was true of Clinton Church.

Where was he supposed to go, then? He had to _think_. Foggy’s fancy new apartment with Marci, too far away. Karen was closer, but he couldn’t go there _now_ , couldn’t crawl to her, broken and bleeding, and beg for her help after he broke her heart.

Where, where—

Bells chimed, so loud they made him flinch. One, two, three…eight chimes. St. Matthew’s. It was even closer than Karen’s place.

It was stupid and reckless, but now that the thought was in his head, he couldn’t ignore it. What would they do, if a bleeding blind man showed up on their doorstep? Besides, the cops apparently weren’t supposed to kill him. And even if someone at St. Matthew’s disagreed, they couldn’t _all_ be that corrupt. Could they?

He hurt so bad, he didn’t really care.

Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself up onto hands and knees. Cold, dirty water dripped from his shoulder from rolling into the puddle, and he shivered again. Every movement caused the flames to spark louder through his ribs, so he tried to keep momentum. Shifting, he managed to tug his laptop bag over his shoulder. The machine was broken, but maybe some files could still be recovered. His glasses were a lost cause, but he needed his phone. His phone was evidence. The world on fire was a little blurry, but he sensed his phone about two feet away. Reaching for it was its own kind of misery, but he managed to grab it with numb fingers and shove it in his pocket. Then, slowly, he rose to his feet.

He grabbed his cane next, and leaned heavily on it as he started moving in the direction of the church. Once he had some forward momentum, it wasn’t too bad. Except he didn’t have any adrenaline to numb the pain. Even after the fight with Nobu, Matt had been so on edge during the whole soaking walk back home, just waiting for one of Fisk’s men to find him, that he hadn’t _really_ felt the pain until he landed in his own apartment. Now, though? There was no enemy, no danger, nothing to fight. Nothing to distract him.

Still, he kept going. One foot in front of the other. He sensed the church a long way off, which just made his progress towards it seem dismally slow. But, finally, trying not to choke on the cloying scent of decorative bushes, he reached the front door and knocked.

There were people awake inside; he could hear them moving around. Maybe they hadn’t heard him? Learning his forehead against the doorframe, he knocked again, harder. His teeth chattered.

Finally, he heard movement coming towards him. The door unlocked, and Matt tried to stand up straight by the time it opened. He didn’t really succeed, and was still half-hunched over when a burst of warm air swept over him.

The young woman—a nun, probably—gasped. “Are you okay?”

Did he _look_ okay? “Not—exactly. I c-could…” There was no shame in saying this. That was what he’d tell a client in this position, and he had to believe it—or at least _pretend_ to believe it—if he didn’t want to die on the icy streets of Hell’s Kitchen. “I could use s-some help.”

The nun seemed to suddenly realize she was standing in the doorway, blocking him. “Oh, oh, I’m sorry, come in.” She stepped back, but apparently Matt took too long shuffling over the threshold, because she ducked in to try to help. Her hand brushed his injured ribs, and he hissed through his teeth, and she flinched back like she’d been burned. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t realize—”

“It’s fine,” he gritted out, getting far enough inside that she was able to close the door behind him, shutting out the cold. The front lobby area was large, larger than it was at Clinton Church, and each small sound echoed off every hard surface. “Do y-you have a phone I c-could borrow?”

“Oh, um.” She patted down her pockets in a fluster. “I can find one. There’s a chair to your right, if you want to sit…?”

He just nodded, running his fingertips against the nearest wall, feeling his way over to the chair. It was stiff and hard-backed and there was absolutely no way to sit on it without reigniting the fire across his torso, and he almost wondered if he was better off standing.

The nun waited until he was seated before running off, like she thought he’d fall over. He listened to her harried footsteps and her hushed conversation with another nun, older, who also didn’t have a phone handy but came by to watch him anyway.

She hovered a few feet away. “Can I ask what happened?”

He attempted a one-shouldered shrug. “Got j-jumped.” He kept his eyes down, wishing he had his glasses, but partially raised his cane. “Happens.”

“I pray whoever did this gets what they deserve,” the new nun said fervently.

Matt was more concerned about the man who’d sent them. He knew Geary was out on bail, but he couldn’t sense the priest anywhere in the church. Matt tried to control his shivering.

“Can I get you some water or something?”

His mouth tasted like blood. “Water would be nice. Thank you.”

She scurried off, leaving him alone. He cast his senses as far away from his body as he could, building a mental map of the church. There was a crucifix on the wall, and several paintings, presumably of saints. A basin held holy water. There was a library behind a door, smelling of dusty tomes and the lingering scents of coffee and cookies, probably from some sort of Bible study. Up above was a large room that must be the priest’s office because it smelled like sex and fear.

Matt’s fingers tightened on his cane.

The two nuns came back, footsteps out-of-sync with each other. One handed him a glass of water; the other, a phone.

“Thanks,” he muttered, wishing they’d leave now that they’d been helpful. He shouldn’t be so ungrateful. They stayed nearby, like children with their faces pressed to the glass of a zoo exhibit, while he called Maggie’s number.

It was only after it started ringing that he realized he should’ve called Claire. But being in the church made him think of Maggie instead.

“This is Maggie,” she answered, sounding tired already.

He cleared his throat. “Hi, Mom.”

“Matthew?” Her voice became distant, like she was pulling her phone back to check the screen. “What number are you calling from?”

“I don’t know, I’m borrowing the phone.” He paused for breath. “I’m at St. Matthew’s. I was…I was hoping you could come by.”

“What are you doing at St. Matthew’s?”

“I…I was attacked.” He told the story as succinctly as possible, skipping over as many details as he could.

“I’m on my way,” she said immediately.

He felt guilty for wishing he’d called Claire.

~

They moved him to a spare room, something set up like a guest bedroom. For anyone who didn’t have somewhere else to stay, they explained. He objected to lying on the bed until they put down towels, never mind the fact that towels felt like something worse than sandpaper on his skin. They were doing so much for him already; he didn’t need to leave them with more laundry.

Stretching out on the bed, he tried to meditate. He couldn’t do anything for himself but start the healing process. Meditation with this many wounds wasn’t easy, but this was what Stick trained him for. No, the harder part was meditating past his fury—at the cops for their corruption and at himself for putting himself in that position.

No sooner had the thought occurred than he heard Dr. Dorner’s voice in the back of his mind: _It wasn’t your fault, Matt. That’s self-blame talking._

Yeah, well, she was also right that at least blaming himself gave him some sense of _control_ of the situation, something he wasn’t eager to relinquish even if it meant wallowing in every mistake he’d made.

 _You have to fight your own thoughts and feelings._ That was Father Lantom’s voice. _Combat them with what you know is true. This wasn’t your fault._

He wished they’d both shut up.

The voices didn’t shut up, exactly, but they were effectively drowned out by footsteps about ten minutes later. Maggie had arrived with a bag stuffed full of medical supplies slung over her shoulder.

“Where is he?” she demanded, determination in her voice. And pain. As if his pain pained her, and she hadn’t even seen him yet.

They directed her to the spare room. A moment later, the door opened. He raised his head.

“Oh, Matthew.” She hurried closer, setting the bag on the bed next to him. “How did this happen?” Her hand moved as if to sweep his hair back.

He jerked away hard enough to send ribbons of pain through his broken ribs. “Oh, come on, don’t pretend you suddenly _care_.”

She froze.

So did he. He didn’t know where that came from; he hadn’t been planning on saying it; he didn’t even _mean_ it. But something was bubbling up inside him, hot and roiling, and his mouth moved on its own. “Just tell me, why now? Why not twenty years ago? What’s changed?”

“Matthew—”

“You _knew_ I was suffering, you _knew_ I was alone, and—” He sucked in a breath, fury growing, “—and you just _watched_ me like it—like it didn’t even matter! Or are you gonna tell me—you didn’t know? You think that’s better, right? If you had _no idea_ how—how hard it was for me? Well, let me tell you—that’s not better, that’s _worse_. Of all the people to not know anything was wrong—” He broke off, unable to get enough oxygen in time.

She was shaking, eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry,” he spat. “Thanks. Very helpful. Really makes up for everything.”

“You’re hurt,” she insisted, voice muted. “You’re upset. Please, let me take care of you, and then we can talk about this.”

“What’s there to talk about? Don’t you _get_ it? I _needed_ you, and you weren’t—” He was forced to stop again, lungs burning, throat tightening.

She wiped at her tears. “You’re right. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. What can I do?”

Like it was his job to tell her that. After everything she’d failed to do for him, now he also had the responsibility of figuring out how she could make things right? As if that were even possible.

“Can I at least take care of your wounds?”

He curled his lip, but he wasn’t actually stupid enough to deny her help just as some kind of revenge. He jerked his head in assent.

She stepped closer, warily, telegraphing her movements like she was approaching an injured animal. Felt like an accurate analogy. The antiseptic applied to his various cuts stung, but that nothing compared to the pressure when she checked his ribs.

She seemed to brace herself before saying, “Not much I can do for these. I’m sorry.”

He didn’t respond.

“I have pain meds.” She poured some pills out of a bottle into her hand, then slipped the bottle into his laptop bag. “Keep taking these until you can get a prescription.”

Wordlessly, he swallowed them dry.

“You should really go to a hospital. It wasn’t like…” She lowered her voice. “It wasn’t like this was Daredevil-related.”

He gestured to his chest. “Don’t tell me you forgot about the scars.”

“So you’ll never go to a hospital again?”

“Not for something as small as broken ribs.”

“As small as—” She cut herself off, shaking her head. “Anyway. I’ll see if I can get you something for the swelling, too.”

“Thanks.” He meant it. He should apologize, too, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to say the words.

“Of course.” She kept her head down. “Listen, I know…I know I wasn’t there before. But I am now. Whenever you need me.”

He didn’t want to talk about it. “I just need to go home.”

“I can take you,” she offered. He tried not to hear the way her voice was both hopeful and unexpectant.

Instead, he just felt around for the phone again. He knew Foggy’s number by heart too, just in case. He dialed.

Foggy answered on the fourth ring. “Who’s this?”

“Fogs,” Matt said, voice thin and whispery.

“ _Matt?_ Did you get a new phone?”

“Not exactly. I…” Why did he have to say this part out loud? He should’ve asked Maggie to text Foggy instead. “I need help.”

Foggy’s voice immediately took on the tenor he only used when he was panicking but trying to pretend otherwise. “It’s, um, a little early for that, isn’t it?”

“I got jumped,” Matt admitted heavily. “Leaving the office.”

“Oh. _Oh_. Are you okay? Where are you?”

Matt skirted around the first question. “St. Matthew’s.”

“…Why are you there?”

Matt clenched his jaw. “Could you just come get me?”

“What? Why? No, never mind. You can tell me when I pick you up.”

“Fogs—”

“Just tell me this: do you want me to take you back to my place, or yours?”

Matt’s eyes stung. He closed them. “…Could you take me home.”

~

Foggy stopped dead as soon as he arrived at the church and saw Matt. “Holy shit.”

“Hey,” Matt rasped weakly.

“You said you got beat up, not beaten an inch from _death_.”

“Looks worse than it is,” Matt managed to say. “Probably.” He hadn’t even been stabbed, so it could’ve definitely been worse.

Foggy didn’t dignify that with a response. “Who did this?”

Matt tipped his head towards the nuns lingering nearby. “How would I know?”

“Oh. Right. Sorry.” Foggy cleared his throat. “Let’s get you home. Can you make it to the car okay?”

Matt glowered. “I’m not an invalid.”

Foggy didn’t bother responding to that either, opting instead to grab Matt’s laptop bag, then help Matt stand up. “Here we go, buddy. Just lean on me.”

They limped together to the car, smelling of Marci’s perfume, where Matt breathed through the pain as he folded himself into the passenger seat. And breathed through the pain again when the car started moving, and again at every minor acceleration, deceleration, or turn.

“Sorry,” Foggy kept muttering, apparently sneaking sideways glances at him. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Matt said tightly.

All in all, it was a tense ride to Matt’s apartment, and then it just got worse when Foggy remembered Matt’s apartment didn’t have an elevator. Matt, who had been silently dreading the six flights of stairs for the entirety of the car ride, just shrugged. It wasn’t like he could sleep in the lobby, so they might as well get it over with.

“You sure you don’t want me to take you back to my place?” Foggy asked tentatively, adjusting the strap of Matt’s bag on his shoulder. “I have an elevator.”

Matt shook his head.

“You sure?”

“Foggy, please, can we just…” He gestured up at the stairs. “Can we just get started?”

Foggy stifled a sigh. “Sure, man. Why not. It’ll be tons of fun for both of us.”

The sarcasm was really not what Matt needed to hear right now, but he couldn’t exactly blame Foggy for it. Sarcasm was a coping mechanism. In a way.

And neither the sarcasm nor Foggy’s deep and obvious loathing of the whole plan were enough to prevent him from sliding an arm around Matt and taking the first step. And the next. And the next. Matt had to stop at each new floor, getting his breath back and trying to slip into just enough of a meditative state to numb the pain. It didn’t really work, but he had to try. By the time they were climbing the final flight, they had to stop twice before they even reached the landing, and both Matt and Foggy were drenched in sweat.

“Keys,” Foggy panted.

Just torqueing his body enough to get his keys out of his back pocket hurt, and Matt couldn’t help his relief when Foggy plucked them from his hand and reached out to unlock the door instead. They shuffled inside and down the hall. Each step was its own battle. Finally, Matt lowered himself gingerly onto the couch, exhausted and slightly nauseated with pain.

Foggy hovered awkwardly in front of him. “Can I get you anything?”

New ribs would be nice. Matt concentrated on pulling off his wet jacket.

“Here.” Foggy set Matt’s laptop bag down, carefully, like it might be somehow possible to break it _more_ , and dashed off to the kitchen to bring back a bottle of water.

Matt wasn’t thirsty, but he accepted it anyway to have something to fidget with during the inevitable conversation.

Sure enough, Foggy took the chair opposite the couch. “So. Think you can tell me what happened?”

The _hesitancy_ in his voice, like he already knew Matt wouldn’t tell him anything but couldn’t help asking anyway, was like a stab in the gut, and all the more so because Matt knew it was deserved. He concentrated on attempting to balance the water bottle on one finger. “I got jumped leaving the office. Like I said. There were two cops.”

“ _Cops?_ ”

“Yeah. Followed me to a deserted street, and…” Matt gestured at himself with his free hand. “They, uh, told me to tell you to leave the McCarty case alone.”

“Shit. We have to report this.”

“What good would that do?”

“The NYPD has to know their own cops are—”

“How?” Matt interrupted bleakly. “I can’t prove they were cops. I can’t even describe what they _looked_ like.”

Foggy was silent for a moment. Then he came up with, “Did you hear them say their names?”

Matt shook his head.

Foggy swore under his breath. “Don’t worry, buddy. We’ll think of something. We’ll send Karen after them, she’ll figure out how to tie them to—”

“Will you tell her?” Matt blurted out.

“What?”

“Will you…will you tell her,” Matt repeated. “What happened.”

“I mean, sure, but why can’t you tell her? Is this some kind of macho superhero thing? Because really, Matt, you don’t have to pretend you’re Captain America just to impress her.”

“That’s…that’s not it.” Matt concentrated more of his attention on balancing the water bottle. “We, uh…we broke up.”

“You what? When? _Why?_ You guys are obsessed with each other. What happened?”

“It wasn’t working out,” Matt said stiffly. “It’s my fault.”

That made Foggy sit up straighter. “What’d you do?”

“I just—I’m not—I’m just not really in a place for relationships right now, all right? Please leave it alone.”

Foggy was silent, but he wasn’t moving. He rested his elbow on his knees and his chin in his hands, and Matt tried not to squirm under the weight of his stare.

Finally, Foggy swallowed and turned his head away. “It’s like I don’t even know you anymore.”

A lump rose in Matt’s throat. It wasn’t like—it wasn’t like Matt wasn’t painfully aware of how he’d completely failed at convincing either Foggy or Karen that he was okay. But there was no lie in Foggy’s heartbeat; he wasn’t being dramatic; he meant every word.

Which meant that _this_ Matt, the Matt who couldn’t ignore what Sheridan did to him, really was different. Permanently affected.

Strangely, the most depressing thing wasn’t the proof that Matt had failed at pretending everything was fine or even the proof that Sheridan really did have such an impact after all.

No, the worst part was letting Foggy down.

“I’m sorry,” Matt whispered.

Then Foggy said, with the inflection of a statement rather than a question, “What happened to you.”

Matt focused all his senses on the water bottle. “You don’t want to know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Psalm 57:4 ~ "My soul is in the midst of lions; I lie down amid fiery beasts— the children of man, whose teeth are spears and arrows, whose tongues are sharp swords."


	23. Joshua 1:9

Foggy’s voice was soft. “I think I do, buddy.”

“You really don’t.”

Foggy’s anger rose; Matt felt it like it was his own. “Don’t tell me what I want.”

Matt shrugged, and kept balancing the water bottle.

Just like that, the anger dissipated. “Matt, I’m really worried.”

“I don’t mean to worry you.”

“Look, I’m sorry about cornering you the other day, all right? It was stupid. But…nothing’s changing with you. You’re just…spiraling, right in front of me. You need to tell me what’s going on.”

“I can’t.”

“I thought you said you could tell me anything!”

Matt wet his lips. “I—I meant generally. You’re the kind of person I could tell anything to. I know I can talk to you, Foggy. Just…not this. Not right now.”

Foggy threw his hands up. “Look, if that’s true, then what am I supposed to do? Wait for the stars to align? Do we need a horoscope here?”

Matt just shook his head.

“Would you quit playing with that water bottle and pay attention to me?”

Reluctantly, Matt set the water bottle aside. “Foggy, listen. It’s—it’s my problem. It doesn’t affect you.”

“Newsflash, buddy, you’re my best friend. Your shit affects me whether you like it or not.”

“Then maybe you should find a better best friend,” Matt muttered before he could stop himself.

Foggy stood up. “Do _not_ start on this again! How many times do we have to have this conversation, asshole? I choose _you_ , okay?”

Matt shrunk on the couch. “Okay,” he said, voice small in his own ears. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Just—” Foggy dragged his hand down his face. “Okay. I get it. Shit’s hard to talk about. I just…I don’t know what to do other than what I’ve been doing.”

“That’s enough.”

“It’s obviously not. Can you just tell me this: what do you even think would happen if you told me this mysterious secret thing?”

Matt dared to let himself imagine it, just for one second. Foggy would be sympathetic, he knew. And righteously angry on his behalf. But he’d also be sad. Maybe he’d be horrified. Maybe he’d start treating Matt like glass.

And if he found out _when_ it happened, if he found out it happened after Matt was trained, he wouldn’t understand how Matt could let that happen. Maybe he’d think Matt was making it up. Maybe he’d think it wasn’t that bad. Maybe he’d think Matt _wanted_ it.

Dr. Dorner could insist it wasn’t Matt’s fault all she wanted, but that wouldn’t matter if Foggy reached his own conclusion.

“Shit.” The leather creaked as Foggy sat down to the right of Matt; Matt hadn’t even noticed him approaching. “Whatever you’re thinking, it doesn’t look good.”

Matt belatedly tried to school his expression—and his emotions. “Can we just…leave it alone? Please? I can’t…” It was too late; his voice cracked and his eyes were suddenly stinging. He fought the tears back. “I can’t lose you too.”

He hadn’t meant to say that.

“Why would you lose me?” Foggy’s hand found Matt’s uninjured one, the gentle gesture belaying the rising horror in his voice. “Did…did you do something?”

Matt swallowed hard. “I didn’t kill anyone, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I’m not going anywhere, man. I wish you could trust me on that.”

“Yeah,” Matt said around the lump in his throat. “I wish I could, too.”

~

The nightmares were relentless that night. He jerked awake at least three times, although he must not have screamed, or else Foggy would’ve come running from the bedroom. (Matt slept upright in the chair to accommodate his ribs, and insisted on Foggy taking the bed.) It was like his subconscious knew someone else was present, knew better than to expose him like that.

Still, despite getting nothing but snatches of sleep, Matt jolted wide awake at five in the morning with his heart already pounding, his hair damp with sweat. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this riddled with nervousness. Not taking the bar, not his first trial, not even his first time going back in the confession booth with Father Lantom.

Today, he’d have to see Karen. And today, he’d have to protect Samuel during the deposition. On a good day, he might be able to handle one or the other. But _both?_ And he wasn’t exactly at his best today.

He’d need to shower, thanks to the thin layer of sweat clinging to his body, which meant he really might as well get up. Instead, he stayed perfectly still in the chair, counting the minutes until his alarm went off. To his surprise, Foggy’s went off first in the other room. Foggy rushed to silence it, then got up, apparently making a concentrated effort to stay quiet, and started getting dressed. Then he tiptoed out of the bedroom. Matt stayed perfectly still as Foggy crept past him towards the front door. It opened and shut.

Matt blinked into his ever-present darkness, wondering if anything could justify how alone he suddenly felt.

He should get up. Start getting ready for the day. Instead, he remained where he was with his eyes closed. He didn’t meditate or pray or even fall back asleep. He drifted from thought to thought as he listened to the sounds of the city slowly waking up outside until he heard footsteps outside his apartment.

Foggy was back, with something new and store-bought in his back pocket. Still apparently trying to stay quiet in case Matt was still asleep, Foggy moved into the kitchen. The coffee maker started up.

Matt forced himself into a more upright position, wincing as his ribs—and the rest of him, frankly—protested. He eased the blanket off his legs and was just standing up when Foggy came in holding an ice pack in one hand and a steaming cup of rich, black coffee in the other.

“Oh, you’re up,” Foggy said stupidly. “ _Shit_ , Matt, your ribs look like the target of a tie dye war.”

“Colorful?” Matt asked, smirking a little.

“Kinda beautiful, in an awful and painful way.” Foggy held out the mug. “Anyway, here. Thought you could use a good start.”

Matt didn’t know quite what to do with such undeserved and unapologetic kindness. “Uh…thanks.” He accepted the mug. “I was gonna shower, though.”

“Oh, no worries. It’ll be cool enough to drink by the time you’re done. Don’t forget to ice your ribs, okay? I was reading up on broken rib aftercare.”

Matt blinked in surprise at Foggy’s concern and took the ice pack. “Oh. Thanks.”

“No problem. Oh, um, also…” Foggy pulled the store-bought thing out of his pocket. “I, uh…I got you a new phone.”

Matt’s eyes flew wide. “Are you serious?”

Foggy shrugged. “We live in New York. It’s a dangerous place, as you proved spectacularly. Plus, you need a way to at least check emails and stuff. So…” He pushed the box at Matt, who had no choice but to accept it, stunned.

He didn’t deserve this, he didn’t—

Foggy interrupted his thoughts with a loud yawn and a stretch. “I’d better get home. Sadly, I won’t fit in any of your suits.” He paused. “You’ll be okay getting to the office by yourself and everything, right?”

Matt was still stunned. “I…uh, yeah. But, Foggy—”

“Don’t worry about it.” Foggy turned around, but stopped halfway out into the main room. “Make sure you eat something, all right?”

Matt’s stomach was so knotted he couldn’t stand the thought of food, but he nodded. “Sure.”

“I mean it. Because I know you didn’t eat anything last night.”

No idea what to say to that, Matt didn’t say anything.

Foggy raised his hands defensively. “Sorry, sorry. I’m going. Don’t die in the shower.”

“I’ll do my best. Thank you.”

Once Foggy was gone, Matt took the phone out of the box, running his fingers over its smooth surface, contemplating it for a long while. Then, shaking himself out of his own head, he placed himself under the shower, taking care not to jostle his ribs. Next was breakfast—toast with peanut butter, which he barely forced down—followed by the arduous process of getting dressed. He automatically reached for his laptop bag before remembering how worthless it was. Well, at least that was one less thing to carry.

~

Foggy must really have told Karen what happened because she wasn’t shocked when he stepped into the office, even though he knew he must look terrible. Instead, she just quietly asked if he needed anything, and seemed resigned when he said he didn’t.

“Um, Matt?” There was a soft sound as she bit her lip. “I—I just wanted to say, Foggy told me how it went when he, um, talked to you…”

“When you goaded him to interrogate me, you mean?”

Heat rose delicately in her cheeks, but she surprised him by taking a step closer. “I’m really sorry about that. Just—I’m so worried, and I didn’t know what else to do. What do you wish I’d done instead?”

“Leave it alone.”

“I can’t do that.”

“So much for actually caring about my wishes, then.”

She tensed and opened her mouth, no doubt for a sharp argument. But she bit it back and sighed instead. “Okay. Look. How about our old deal? If— _when_ —you think you can tell me what’s going on, I’ll be here. Listening. All right?”

“That’s all I’ve been wanting, Karen.”

“The thing is…” She took another step closer, close enough for him to feel her body heat. “You said yourself that something’s wrong. I can’t ignore that. So I’ll wait, like before, but…but not if this keeps getting worse. And I’m not trying to give you an ultimatum or anything, I swear, I’m just…I’m trying to be a good friend and I don’t know what else to do.”

He blinked, taken aback by that little speech. She sounded anxious, like she was half-convinced she’d already said the wrong thing, but beneath that was a layer of determination. Like she wouldn’t let anything hurt him.

Including him.

A lump rose in his throat. “Uh…thank you. I think.”

“Yeah.” Her voice was a breath. “Um.” Tucking her hair nervously behind her ear, she backed up. “Anyway, I…just wanted to say that.” And with that, she turned and disappeared into her own office, leaving him slightly stunned in her wake.

About ten minutes later, Foggy showed up and halted in the doorway. “I thought you showered.”

Matt frowned. “I did.”

“Then why do you still look like you lost a fight with a grizzly bear?”

Ah. “Pretty sure that would involve more blood. Possibly intestines.”

“Ew.”

Karen came up behind him. “Here, Foggy.” Her voice was subdued as she pressed something small into Foggy’s hand.

“I don’t know how to—” Foggy cut himself off. Karen was walking away again. He sighed. “All right. C’mere, Murdock.”

Matt drifted closer. “Why?”

“Makeup.”

Oh. Right. Matt felt a pang deep in his chest and couldn’t help wondering why she hadn’t offered to apply it for him herself. Because she thought he needed space, or because _she_ needed space? “Thanks,” he forced himself to say, trying not to outwardly cringe when his voice sounded flat and broken at the same time. He came close and shut his eyes as Foggy started covering Matt’s face with makeup. Foggy’s lack of technique was immediately apparent from the way he jabbed the brush instead of sweeping it over Matt’s skin. Matt felt the urge to sneeze and gritted his teeth, knowing just how painful that would be with his ribs.

The whole ordeal kind of seemed like wasted effort when Hannah and Samuel arrived, and both immediately did a double-take.

“What happened to you?” Samuel blurted out.

Matt and Foggy had already discussed this. They’d have to tell Hannah what happened, for her safety, but they’d leave it up to her to decide if, when, and how to tell Samuel. “We can talk about it later,” Matt said, as smoothly as he could. “Right now, we have something more important to focus on.”

They ushered Samuel into the conference room, making sure Samuel and Hannah both had seats where they were comfortable. Karen magically appeared with a seat cushion she’d acquired from who-knew-where, offering it to Samuel, who reared back in disgust.

“I’m not a baby,” he protested.

No, but he was already significantly shorter than everyone else in the room, and he’d feel even smaller in his chair. “Trust me,” Matt murmured. “You’ll throw them off if you’re on their level.”

Not quite true, but it would make Samuel feel better to not have everyone staring down at him.

“Couple things,” Foggy said, once they were all settled. “Samuel, remember to go slow when they’re asking you questions. Try to count to three in your head. That gives you time to think, and it gives us time to object. Not that we’ll be able to object a lot, since the rules are kinda loose in depositions, but still.”

“It’s also a way to undermine the other side,” Matt added. “They’ll try to set the pace. It’s part of controlling the conversation. If you refuse to let them set the pace, you hold onto more of the power.”

Samuel nodded very seriously.

“One more thing, Samuel: listen carefully to the question, and answer just what it’s asking for. Don’t give less information, but definitely don’t give more. Make them work for it.”

“Huh?”

“Like this.” Matt turned to Foggy. “Foggy, answer normally. What was your favorite thing about middle school?”

“Lunch,” Foggy answered promptly. “I had a ton of friends before they all realized I wasn’t cool and stopped hanging out with me, and my mom always packed me a lunch which was technically uncool but not really because she made the _best_ cookies and everyone was jealous, so we got to trade. I guess some might say I built my popularity off my mom’s cookies, but I still assert that it was the result of my personality which is truly irresistible to all but middle and high school students.”

Hannah let out a nervous laugh.

“Okay,” Matt said, “now just answer the question. Foggy, what was your favorite thing about middle school?”

“Lunch,” Foggy said, and clamped his mouth closed.

Matt turned back to Samuel. “See the difference?”

Samuel nodded again.

“You try,” Matt instructed. “Sammy, what did you do yesterday?”

“My mom took me to see a movie,” he answered. “One of the new _Star Wars_ —” He stopped. “Sorry.”

“No, that was good,” Matt said encouragingly. “You knew to stop, and that’s exactly right. I didn’t ask what movie it was, so you don’t need to tell me its name, or what you thought of it, or even, technically, that you watched it with your mom. Just keep your answers as short as possible.”

“But don’t stress about it,” Foggy added, nudging Matt. “You’ll do great.”

“Don’t stress,” Matt repeated, like the hypocrite he was. In his defense, not stressing was virtually an impossibility when he could feel everyone else’s tension like it was his own. (Not like that argument would hold water given the state he’d been in this morning, but still.) Reaching out, he squeezed Samuel’s shoulder. “And, listen, when they ask you a question, just go ahead and look at Foggy and me. Okay? You don’t even have to look at them if you don’t want to.”

“I’m not scared,” Samuel insisted.

“I know. I’m just saying.”

“Up to you,” Foggy said, and held out his hand for a fist bump. “You got this, my man.”

Samuel let out a laugh, higher pitched than it should’ve been, and quickly bumped Foggy’s fist.

Matt cocked his head as he caught the sound of footsteps outside the building. The defense attorneys were close. Three of them: Father Geary had one lawyer, a woman; St. Matthew’s had two men. They were all talking quietly together. Not about the case, but about a football game on the night before. Like they were friends.

Matt gritted his teeth. They probably were.

“Incoming,” he said in a low voice.

“Awesome.” Foggy headed out to the lobby to intercept them.

They came in radiating confidence. And why not? Their clients’ accuser was an eleven-year-old boy who shrank in his seat when they entered the room.

“You must be Samuel,” the woman cooed in a sickeningly sweet voice.

“…Hi,” he replied uncertainly.

She held out her hand. “My name’s Samantha Walker, and I represent your priest.”

Samuel’s head turned towards Hannah; when she didn’t say or do anything, he quickly shook Walker’s hand, then hid both his hands in his lap.

“And I’m Robson,” the taller of the two men said. “This is my partner, Torres. We represent your church. How’s it going?” He also held out his hand, though his partner did not.

Again, Samuel shook it as quickly as possible, and then clasped his hands together in his lap once more.

The last to arrive were the videographer, a young man, and the court reporter, a woman probably in her mid-fifties, and appearing to Matt’s senses to be dressed stiffly like an old-fashioned librarian. Her demeanor was utterly detached as she set up in the back corner. The room quickly felt stiflingly full, packed with Samuel, Matt and Foggy, Hannah, the court reporter, and the three other lawyers, who made Hannah sit behind Samuel and only allowed her to remain in the room on the condition that she kept silent.

The preliminary arrangements had already taken place between the lawyers over the phone, so there was nothing to do but dive straight into the deposition. The attorneys introduced themselves, and Samuel was sworn in. The kid was already practically vibrating with nerves when Matt sat across from him and tried to offer a calming smile. Conventional wisdom dictated that attorneys should not question their own witnesses during a deposition, but Matt and Foggy wanted to give Samuel the chance to warm up to the whole process.

“Hello,” Matt said. “Please tell us your name.”

The court reporter started typing, her steno type machine clacking away under her fingers.

“Samuel McCarty,” Samuel blurted out, too quick, breathless.

Matt waited a second, giving Samuel the chance to get his breath back. “And how old are you?”

“Eleven years old,” Samuel answered more steadily.

“Where do you live?”

Samuel gave the address and added, “I live with my mom.”

“Just your mom?”

“Yeah, just my mom.”

“What kinds of things do you do during a week, Samuel?”

“Um, school, mostly.” He sounded a little unhappy about that. “Homework. Um, I play soccer in the fall and baseball in the spring. I hang out with my friends.”

“You any good at soccer?”

Samuel seemed thrown by the topic for an instant before he perked up. “I play forward. I scored four goals last week.”

Matt grinned. “Nice.” Then the grin faded. “What do you do on Sunday?”

“I—we _used_ to go to church.”

“Do you know which church?”

“Yeah. St. Matthew’s.”

“How long have you been going to St. Matthew’s?”

“Long as I can remember. But we don’t go anymore.”

“When did you stop?”

“Um. Couple months ago.”

“Was that your decision?”

“My mom asked me. Like, we talked about it. I dunno. I have friends there who I don’t see a school or anything. But it’s also…hard to be there. I dunno. She wanted to stop going.”

In her corner, Hannah hugged herself more tightly.

“Do you want to go back?”

“Um, no. I have some friends at church, but we have them over to hang out, so there’s not really any reason to go back.”

Matt nodded. “All right. I want to talk now about the priest at St. Matthew’s. Do you know him?”

Samuel shrank a little in his seat. “Yeah.”

“What’s his name?” Matt prompted gently.

“Um. Geary. Father Geary.”

“How do you know him?”

“He’s the priest,” Samuel repeated tensely.

“I mean, did you ever interact with him?”

“Yeah.”

“How did that start?”

“Confession. Eventually he asked me to be an altar boy. I did it sometimes, but we didn’t go to mass all the time. Too busy.”

“Did Geary find other ways to interact with you, then?”

Samuel’s voice got very small. “Yes.”

“Can you tell us about that?”

“Um.” Samuel’s palms were sweating; he wiped them on his pants. Haltingly, he started to describe what Father Geary did to him. First it was just special treatment compared to other kids. Long talks at the church turned into Geary asking Hannah for permission to take the boy out for lunch or ice cream or to the movies. Then Geary started touching Samuel more, first playfully, then with more intent. On the back of his neck, under his chin, on his upper thighs.

Samuel didn’t like it, he said. But he thought he’d get in trouble if he asked Geary to stop.

It kept going like that until Samuel finally shared a bigger secret in confession. His face turned red with miserable embarrassment as he admitted, in a room full of strangers, how he’d finally confessed to touching himself.

It was going to come out anyway, Matt told Samuel in preparation for these questions. Matt had personally reviewed the notes from Samuel’s therapist when the boy talked about this, which meant the lawyers for Geary and St. Matthew’s knew about it and would no doubt try to use it against Samuel. Better, then, to first bring it up on direct examination.

Once Samuel admitted to that, Geary had zeroed in, saying that a special kind of penance was required to undo what Samuel had done. Now Geary was showing Samuel pornographic videos. Now the touching became overtly sexual. Now Geary made Samuel touch him back. Now the local outings turned into overnight stays in other cities, even in another state. Matt’s guts twisted as he asked Samuel to outline more specifically what Geary told him to do, and what was done to him. Memories gnawed at the back of Matt’s mind. But he couldn’t afford to lose focus.

Behind her son, Hannah sat still as a statue, every muscle tense, barely breathing as she listened. Too focused on preparing Samuel, Matt had forgotten to make sure she was ready to hear this. She was keeping quiet for now, though, and Matt couldn’t afford to focus on her.

It was a relief to steer the questioning away from the abuse itself. “When was the first time you told anyone about what happened?” Matt asked.

“You,” Samuel said softly. “I told you.”

“When did you tell me?”

“Like, maybe three months ago. Right before we stopped going to church.

“Why did you wait so long after Geary started abusing you to tell anyone?”

“Um. He told me I’d go to Hell.”

“Did you believe him?”

“Yes,” Samuel breathed.

“Did he do anything else to tell you to stay quiet?”

“He said…” Samuel swallowed hard. “He said my mom would hate me, if she knew.”

Hannah inhaled shakily.

“Anything else?”

“He said he’d hurt her,” Samuel said very quietly.

“Did he say how?”

“No. Um. But it made sense he’d figure out a way.” Then, suddenly, Samuel paused, his little heart beating faster. Matt couldn’t see him to know for sure, but he could imagine the kid’s eyes raking over Matt’s visible injuries, seeing them in a new light.

Matt shifted gears as fast as he could. “Okay. I want to talk now about how life has been different for you since Geary started hurting you. How were you sleeping, before all this happened?”

“Like, a normal amount, I guess.”

“What about since?”

“I wake up at night.”

“Why?”

“Nightmares.”

Matt wet his lips. “What are the nightmares about?”

“Geary. What he did. And, um, sometimes what he said.”

“What he said?” Matt repeated.

“I have nightmares about…about Hell. Sometimes.”

“What about your appetite? How was your appetite before all this started?”

“Normal.”

“What about since?”

Samuel squirmed a little in his seat. These questions weren’t as invasive as the questions about the actual abuse, true, but it was still personal. Private. “Depends,” he said eventually. “Sometimes I’m hungry like normal. But sometimes I feel like I can’t eat anything.”

“What about your feelings? Have you been more anxious, angry, sad…?”

“Anxious,” Samuel said quietly. “I—I’ve gotten really anxious at school sometimes. Like, a panic attack.” He ducked his head, embarrassed. “I guess.”

One of the other lawyers exhaled in a quiet scoff through his nose. Matt heard it, but hoped Samuel hadn’t. “Is there anything that helps with all that?”

The kid’s foot thumped against the leg of the chair. “I have a therapist now. Dr. Martinez. He’s cool.”

“How often do you see him?”

“Like, twice a week. Sometimes more, though.”

Matt tilted his head. “Why sometimes more?”

“Like, if…if it’s a bad week.”

Matt didn’t want to dig, he really didn’t. But he had to. “What makes a bad week so bad?”

Samuel’s voice dulled as he retreated into himself. “I dunno. When it all happens at once.”

The other lawyers were going to be relentless, never giving Samuel a break, never easing up once they started applying the pressure. Matt hated himself for doing the same thing. “What all happens at once? Can you be specific?”

Samuel took a deep breath. “Not sleeping. Not eating. The nightmares. I don’t even wanna be around my friends. That part really scares my mom, so she’ll call Dr. Martinez.”

There. That was good enough. Matt segued. “Are you on any medications?”

“Uh, yeah.” Samuel sounded relieved; then, an instant later, guilty: “I don’t remember the names, though. Sorry.”

“That’s fine,” Matt assured him. They could get that information from Hannah or the therapist easily enough. “I just have a few more questions for you. First, has Father Geary tried to talk to you or see you since you stopped going to church?”

“He’s called my mom a couple times. She doesn’t answer, though.”

“Have you tried to talk to Father Geary since you stopped going to church?”

Samuel shivered. “ _No_. Never.”

There. That was good enough. “Okay.” Matt sat back, though he didn’t give himself permission to relax. “That’s all the questions I have.”

For a moment, all he could hear was the anxious beating of Samuel’s heart (and Hannah’s). Then there was the slow, quiet scrape of a chair against the floor as Samantha Walker, Father Geary’s lawyer, moved closer to the table, folding her hands on its surface. She kept her head level, turned towards Samuel, until the kid’s nervous movements ceased under her stare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Joshua 1:9 ~ "Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go."


	24. John 3:19-20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for lots of insensitive, awful questions about abuse.

Matt reminded himself that they’d prepared for this. Samuel knew what to expect. Mostly, at least. It was impossible to anticipate everything.

But the worst part was that, unlike at trial, there were few objections Matt was even allowed to make. He was mostly limited to objections as to the form of the defense attorneys’ questions. Compound questions, for instance, or ambiguous questions. He could _try_ to object on grounds that the question was irrelevant, but that objection was unlikely to succeed since the bar for relevancy was so low. He’d have better luck objecting if the questions tried to get at privileged information—unless that privilege had been waived. Finally, he could object if the defense attorneys started harassing Samuel. Compared to the objections that would be available to him at trial, he had a pitiful set of tools to protect Samuel in a deposition.

For the most part, Samuel would be on his own here.

Matt turned to the kid (a bit stiffly, mindful of his ribs). “Do you want a break or anything first, Sammy?”

Samuel sat up straighter in his chair. “No.” His little voice was level. “I’m good.”

Matt felt a burst of pride coupled with fear. No matter how much he and Foggy tried to prep him, there was no way Samuel could really know what to expect here.

“You sure?” Hannah blurted out, doing a much poorer job at not telegraphing her nervousness than Samuel.

“Ma’am,” Torres said warningly.

“Yeah, Mom.” His body turned around to face Hannah, and Matt wished he could see the expression in his eyes. Then Samuel turned back towards Matt. “I’m ready.”

Samantha Walker leaned forward a bit, getting his attention. “Hi, Samuel. Like I said, I represent your priest, and I have some questions for you, okay? It might take a while to get through everything, so if you need a break just say so. But you should know that asking to take a break won’t mean you don’t have to answer my questions, okay? But as long as you’re honest, you don’t have anything to worry about. Okay?”

Matt wondered if she was aware that she said _okay_ after every sentence.

“Okay,” Samuel replied steadily.

“Samuel, how long was Father Geary your priest before you stopped going to church?”

“Um…” Samuel’s head started to turn like he was glancing at Hannah before he seemed to catch himself. “Like, three years, I think. Not all the time at first, and then more and more.”

“When exactly do you claim that Geary started sexually abusing you?”

Samuel bit his lip, cheeks reddening again. “Like, last spring?”

“Can you get more specific?”

Samuel lowered his head. “April.”

“Do you remember the day.”

“…It was a Sunday?”

Walker’s voice turned vaguely patronizing. “Where, there are usually four Sundays in a month. Do you remember which Sunday?”

Matt itched to intervene. The point of these questions wasn’t about dates and times; the point was to make Samuel feel stupid for being unable to answer.

“It was in the middle?” Samuel’s voice went up at the end. He was obviously guessing. Exactly what Matt and Foggy had told him _not_ to do.

Matt leaned in slightly. “If you don’t know the answer…”

Samuel gave a quick shake of his head. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t remember?” Walker’s incredulity was obvious. “Everything you’ve described is very traumatic and unusual, Samuel. You really don’t remember when it all started?”

“No,” Samuel mumbled.

“You don’t remember when everything changed from normal to terrible?”

“It…it wasn’t normal,” he argued, albeit hesitantly. “It was creepy and weird even before that.”

Matt was proud.

“I didn’t like Father Geary,” Samuel insisted.

“You liked him enough to agree to be his altar boy,” Walker pointed out.

Samuel shrugged uncomfortably.

“I need a verbal answer, Samuel. You liked him enough to agree to be his alter boy, _didn’t_ you?”

“I _didn’t_ like him.”

“But you _did_ agree to be his alter boy?”

“Yeah,” Samuel admitted finally.

“Which involves spending extra time with him?”

“Yeah.”

“Remind me, when did you become an altar boy?”

“Um. Like a year ago. Last winter.”

“So you spent several months as an altar boy before any of this awful, traumatic stuff ever happened?”

“Yeah.”

“And how many people did you tell about how Father Geary made you feel uncomfortable while you were his alter boy?”

Samuel ducked his head. “I…didn’t tell anyone.”

“Wow. Okay, I’m just trying to get this straight. So you started being an altar boy and spending all this extra time with Father Geary in…what, November of last year? And then you didn’t say _anything_ to _anyone_ about anything going wrong until, what, this last September? So—”

“Objection,” Matt snapped. “Compound question.”

“I’m just clarifying the calendar,” Walker said sweetly, “since he seems to have trouble remembering the months.”

Matt gritted his teeth. “Just ask your next question.”

“Of course.” She turned back to Samuel. “You spent ten months in close contact with Father Geary before you ever thought to say anything to anyone. Is that right?”

“I…guess so.”

“Is your mother particularly harsh?”

Hannah tensed.

“What?” Samuel blurted out.

“Does she mistreat you?”

“What? No!”

“Does she shame you?”

Hannah pressed a hand over her mouth.

“No!”

“Does she neglect you?

Samuel raised his voice. “Stop talking about my mom like that!”

Walker was unfazed. “Answer the question, Samuel. Does she neglect you?”

“ _No._ ”

“So you had no reason not to tell her what happened, right?”

“No.”

“No, you had a reason not to tell her?”

“Wh-what?” Samuel stammered.

“Isn’t it true that you had a reason not to tell her?”

“No, I meant—yes. I mean…” The boy trailed off.

“Is the question too confusing for you, sweetie?”

Samuel flushed.

Matt clenched his jaw. “Refer to him by his name.”

“Sorry,” Walker said unapologetically. “Samuel, you didn’t have _any_ reason to keep this secret from your mother, _did_ you?”

“I just…” Samuel wilted in his seat. “I didn’t want to tell her.”

“For no good reason,” Walker pressed.

 _Don’t agree to that,_ Matt wanted to whisper. But he couldn’t.

Samuel’s voice was weak with defeat. “I guess.”

Damn it.

The only sign of Walker’s triumph at this small victory was a slight straightening of her posture. But she didn’t linger on the issue; she’d gotten what she wanted, and now she moved on before Samuel could clarify. “Your father’s not around?”

“No.”

“What about uncles?”

“What? Uh…” Samuel’s head twitched like he was shooting a nervous look at Hannah. “I have two uncles.”

“Do you hang out with any of them?”

“I used to. Not much anymore.”

“Because they sexually abused you?”

“Objection!” Matt spat out before the other lawyer could even finish the question. “This line of questioning is barred by Rule 412. Samuel, don’t answer that.”

Samuel seemed too frozen to answer, even if he’d wanted to.

“He’s claiming psychological harm,” Walker countered calmly. “This is relevant to establish whether his trauma predates whatever may or may not have occurred with Father Geary, and therefore its probative value substantially outweighs the danger of unfair prejudice.”

“File a motion and get a court order,” Matt growled. He and Foggy would fight it tooth and nail. “You’re not asking these questions without permission from a judge.”

“Fine.” She turned back to Samuel. “Without talking about anyone you may or may not have had sex with—”

Hannah hissed between her teeth.

“—can you tell us what exposure you’ve had to sexual acts? Maybe through movies or videos?”

Samuel was flushed, his voice shaky. “Father Geary made me watch some stuff. I said that already.”

“Yes, you mentioned it _very_ broadly. I need to know just a little bit more, though. First, were those videos of men with men?”

There wasn’t a valid objection to these questions. Matt wanted to strangle her.

“Y-yes,” Samuel said.

“What about men with younger boys?” Her voice was soft, but her pace was rapid-fire.

Samuel’s body heated up so much that he might have had a fever. “It was mostly that.”

“Men with women?”

“Um, no.”

“Men with little girls?”

Samuel gulped. “Yeah.”

“Did any of those videos arouse you? Make you feel good?”

Samuel’s head snapped around towards Matt. He was barely breathing. “Um—um—”

“Let’s take a break,” Matt cut in. His hands were clenched so hard, his nails were digging into his palms.

Walker paused. “Fine,” she said coolly.

Hannah let out a tiny sigh of relief as everyone stood up.

The office was so small that there was really no way to get distance from everyone else without someone leaving; the one thing Matt appreciated about these defense attorneys was that they took it upon themselves to regroup outside. Matt listened in on their conversation without a trace of his usual hesitation.

“Must be getting somewhere good,” Robson said, “if Murdock’s asking for a break.”

“I know,” Walker said smugly.

The third lawyer, the one who’d barely said anything this whole time, spoke up. “Go easy. He’s just a kid.”

“Making some bold claims with no evidence to back it up,” Robson pointed out.

“Matt?”

Matt refocused. He was still with Foggy and Samuel in the conference room. “What?”

He sensed Foggy’s concealed frustration (and worry). “I was just telling Samuel how great a job he’s doing. Braver than I’d be if I were facing down three attorneys like that.”

Matt opened his mouth to say the same. Instead it struck him: how easily this could’ve been him, how it could _still be_ him thanks to the window temporarily lifting the statute of limitations, and the words stuck in his throat.

“Matt?” Samuel asked, voice small and tight, like Foggy’s approval wasn’t good enough.

Matt cleared his throat and flashed Samuel a smile. “Foggy’s right. You’re doing a tremendous job.”

Samuel shifted his weight back and forth between his feet, restless. He didn’t seem reassured. “I didn’t, um…I didn’t think they were gonna ask about all the videos and everything.”

“They can ask about pretty much anything they want,” Matt reminded him gently, slipping his hands into his pockets and trying to appear calm and reliable. “But that’s okay. Doesn’t matter what they ask, all you have to do is tell the truth. Remember?”

Samuel’s head ducked down towards his chin. “I’m messing this up.”

“No,” Matt said firmly. “You’re better than most witnesses twice your age. Just keep focused. Eye on the prize, yeah?”

“You want water or anything?” Foggy offered.

Good thinking on Foggy’s part. Water would give Samuel something to use to distract himself if he needed just an extra second to think.

Matt should’ve thought of it. He tried not to worry about the fact that he hadn’t.

~

True to her word, Walker picked up right where she’d left off.

The videos.

“Did any of them arouse you, Samuel?”

Samuel’s heart was racing in his chest again. He gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

“I’m gonna need a verbal answer, sweetheart.”

“You’ll refer to him by his name,” Matt snapped.

“I’m so sorry.” She wasn’t. “We need a verbal answer, Samuel. Did any of those videos arouse you?”

“Yes,” he whispered.

“Which ones?”

Samuel squirmed. “The—the one in the locker room.”

Matt smelled salt. Hannah was crying silently.

Samuel noticed. He flushed, small hands tightening into fists. “S-sorry—”

Foggy leaned over. “Can you wait outside?” he murmured.

Hannah got up and stumbled out without saying a word. Samuel’s heart beat faster.

Walker waited patiently until the room was quiet again. “Samuel, what kinds of people were in that video? A grown up with another grown up, or…?”

“A grown up with a kid,” Samuel admitted brokenly.

“A boy or a girl?”

“…A boy.”

Matt wanted to interrupt. He wanted to call for another break. He wanted to throw up.

“Okay.” Walker leaned over the table. “I need you to tell us what they were doing in that video.”

~

A strange phenomenon occurred in legal proceedings. Depositions, examinations at trial, all of it. The world shrunk to the barriers of the room. Not unlike when Matt was a kid, back when he still had his sight and would play soccer with some of the other kids in the neighborhood. Nothing existed outside of the field.

Normally, Matt considered that kind of focus, that metaphorical tunnel vision, a good thing. It eliminated distractions. Which, for someone with his senses, was absolutely crucial.

Today, he wasn’t so sure. As Samuel slowly, painfully went over the graphic, abusive acts depicted in videos, as he was forced to describe his own reactions to them, as he talked about the way Geary hovered over his shoulder, taking note of everything…Matt wanted to listen to the birds huddled in their nest under the roof next door. The cars traveling on the street. A radio blaring somewhere. But although he was distantly aware of all of those things, he couldn’t focus on them, not even for an instant.

He was a coward for even wanting to. But then, this line of questioning, though brutal, was unobjectionable. There was nothing Matt could do but sit there, listening.

Walker asked a thousand questions about what Samuel observed in those videos, having him detail every interaction and his every response. Samuel was getting more and more worked up when Matt called for another break.

Walker gave a tiny, nearly-inaudible hiss of annoyance, but she complied.

This time, Matt and Foggy ushered Samuel out into the lobby to meet Hannah. They all seemed to want more space.

“You’re doing great,” Matt started to tell Samuel, but the kid turned his face away.

Hannah put her hand on her son’s shoulder. “Let’s take a quick walk, okay? Just a lap around the building.” She turned to Foggy with a warning in her voice. “If that’s okay.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Foggy said quickly. “That’s a great idea.”

The two of them disappeared outside, and Foggy let out a slow breath through his cheeks. “Shit. You doing okay, buddy?”

Matt hurriedly wiped at the sweat clinging to back of his neck. “Yeah. ’Course. I’m fine.”

“Really?” Foggy sighed. “Because I kind of want to die. But I’d rather murder them first, you know? If I die afterwards, at least they can’t charge me.”

Matt forced himself to reply. “They’ll charge me too now that you told me your plan, thanks.”

“Aw, man, sorry.” Foggy sighed again. “You’d be more capable of killing them anyw—”

Matt dug his elbow into Foggy’s ribs. Which, since Matt was still so injured, pretty much just hurt both of them.

“Oof,” Foggy grunted. “Do that again and I’ll tell Claire.”

Matt rolled his eyes.

“Seriously, though.” Foggy lowered his voice. “How’s Samuel doing? Can you tell?”

“Awful,” Matt said shortly. “But I don’t think he’s going to quit.”

“I almost wish he would,” Foggy muttered.

Matt couldn’t bring himself to respond.

There was a long pause. Then: “Are you sure _you’re_ okay?”

Matt stiffened. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Another pause, like Foggy was evaluating Matt’s reaction. “It’s just heavy stuff,” he said eventually, his tone gentle in a way that Matt had never heard before.

What, was he…putting something together? Making connections? Matt didn’t _know_. For all that he could read heartbeats, he couldn’t read _minds_. He opened his mouth to say something calm and confident that would dispel all suspicion, but before he could even figure out what that might be, Hannah and Samuel were back.

As soon as everyone regathered in the conference room (including Hannah, with the understanding that she might have to leave again), Walker dove straight back into things. Matt tried to focus. He really did. But his ears were ringing and he…he must’ve lost track of the last few questions because he couldn’t remember the last thing either Walker or Samuel had said when Walker suddenly announced that she was done.

One of St. Matthew’s attorneys, Robson, swooped in before Matt could think to suggesting taking a break. “Hello, Samuel, I have just a few more questions. Ready? Great. I know we’ve been over this a few times, but just to clarify, you didn’t tell anyone what was happening, did you?”

“Um.” Samuel sounded slightly stunned by the abrupt shift. “I—I told Mr. Murdock. Then I told Mom. And Dr. Martinez. Like I’ve been saying.”

Robson set a swift pace. “Right. But you said that was back in September?”

“Yeah.”

“But you claim the sexual abuse started in April?”

“Um, yeah.”

“So for six months, you didn’t tell _anyone?_ ”

“No.”

“Did your mom try to get you to talk about it, though?”

Hannah’s heart pounded loudly.

“Yeah,” Samuel said.

“That was right about the time that she hired Mr. Murdock and Mr. Nelson, right?”

“Yeah.” Samuel sounded confused now.

Matt was suddenly too hot, even though his skin felt clammy. He knew where Robson was going with this: trying to hint that Hannah either got Samuel to lie for her, or suggested false memories as part of her own agenda. It was sure to come up more when Hannah herself was deposed; Robson was just laying the foundation today. Matt doubted Samuel even understood the significance of the questions. It all made Matt feel like his tie was too tight around his neck.

“Samuel,” Robson went on, “you and your mom don’t have a lot of money, do you?”

Matt opened his mouth, but there was no valid objection. There just wasn’t.

Samuel sat up straighter. “We’re not poor,” he said indignantly.

At least he still had a spark in him.

“How many jobs does your mom work?” Robson asked.

“Two,” Samuel mumbled.

“Bet that’s pretty exhausting for her, huh?”

“Objection,” Matt snapped. “Lack of personal knowledge.”

Robson pivoted seamlessly. “Samuel, all this stuff you claim Father Geary did to you…how many times did it happen?”

“What?”

“How many times did it happen? How many times would you say Father Geary touched you, or made you touch him?”

“I…” Samuel trailed off.

“Can you not answer the question?”

“Give him a minute,” Matt bit out.

Robson raised his hands as if to show he’d done nothing wrong.

Samuel clutched the cup of water Foggy had given him. “I mean, it—it was a couple times every week, most weeks.”

“How many times? Just on average. Three times? Four? Five?”

“Five, maybe,” Samuel suggested weakly.

“Six?”

“I don’t know.”

“Let’s go with five, then.” Robson’s voice was academic and detached. “There are twenty-six weeks in six months. Twenty-six times five is…let me think. Math isn’t my strong suit, that’s why I went to law school…”

Matt felt sick.

Samantha Walker tittered obnoxiously.

“About a hundred and thirty times. I think that’s right. So, Samuel, are you telling us that Geary sexually abused you a hundred and thirty six times?”

Samuel nodded mutely.

“I need a verbal answer.”

Samuel swallowed. “I guess. Yes.”

“Okay. Thanks. Now, tell me: at what point did you not like it?”

Matt stiffened. The question was a trap: either Samuel said he liked it, which would set Robson down a vicious path, or Samuel said he didn’t, and Robson would ask why he kept coming back. But Matt couldn’t think of an objection that would hold any weight here, and Foggy didn’t say anything, so apparently he couldn’t think of anything either

Or else he didn’t see the trap for what it was.

Samuel lowered his head. “I never liked it.”

“So, the first time it happened, you didn’t like it?”

He nodded, then caught himself. “Yeah.”

“Yeah, you did?”

“No, I mean—no, I didn’t.”

“But you still came back one hundred and twenty-nine times?”

A wave of cold nausea swept over Matt. He breathed deeply through his nose.

“Yes,” Samuel breathed.

“Why? Just because he said you had to?”

“Yes.”

“Did anyone ever see you with Father Geary?”

“No.”

He nodded once, as if to himself. Then he lowered his voice. “Samuel, I just have a couple of questions about what happened with Father Geary. I’ll try to keep this short and to the point, okay?”

Fresh sweat prickled on the back of Matt’s neck.

“Okay,” Samuel said hesitantly.

“Um, so…you said on direct that Father Geary touched you, correct?”

Samuel’s voice was small. “Yes.”

“When did he start touching you? The fifth time, the sixth time…?”

“The, um…the third time.”

“When you came back after that, did you expect him to touch you again?”

“I—” Samuel’s breathing was getting too fast. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know, or you don’t want to say?”

Matt smelled a hint of salt from Samuel’s tears. “I don’t _know_. I don’t—I don’t remember.”

“You’ve had a pretty good memory of everything else,” Robson observed.

“Is that a question?” Foggy snapped.

Robson ignored him. “Samuel, was it ever arousing?”

There was too much saliva in Matt’s mouth.

“Um,” Samuel squeaked. “Um, y-yes. But—but Matt said it wasn’t my fault.”

Oh, shit.

Foggy’s head turned towards Matt in disbelief. Matt tried to swallow.

Robson swooped in. “Did you just say Mr. Murdock told you to say that?”

Samuel shrank in his seat, like he knew he’d done something wrong but couldn’t figure out what. “He said it was just, like, um, like a reflex.”

“You talked with Mr. Murdock about this? What else did he say?” Robson demanded.

Something thick was welling up in Matt’s stomach, and he realized with absolute panic that the fight with nausea was one he was going to lose.

“Excuse me,” he managed, shoving his chair back.

Every head swiveled in his direction as he ignored his cane, running his hand along the wall as he got out of there as fast as he could. He burst into the bathroom, falling to his knees in front of the toilet and throwing up his meager breakfast. His broken ribs screamed as his body strained. His stomach heaved again and he retched helplessly. The sounds and smells ricocheted back at him even after his stomach was empty.

Still clutching his ribs, he flushed, then spent a few seconds trying to decide whether standing up was worth it. Of course, it wasn’t really a choice. Curling up on the disgusting floor was not an option. Bracing himself against the bathroom wall, Matt pushed himself slowly to his feet as the whole world spun around him. His legs were weak and he was shivery all over, but he moved stiffly across to the sink. Bending over was a mild pain compared to retching, but it still hurt as he tried to get close enough to the faucet to rinse his mouth out.

He was still hunched awkwardly over the counter when there was a tap at the door. He hadn’t even realized Karen was outside, but now she was stepping in, heart fluttering with nervous embarrassment.

“Hey,” she said softly. “Um…I saw you come in here, and I kinda heard…y’know.”

Humiliation wept over him. At least her office was closer to the bathroom than the conference room was; there was still a chance the others hadn’t heard him. Spitting one last time into the sink, he straightened up. “Sorry,” he said stiffly.

“Don’t be sorry. Are you sick?”

He turned off the water. “I guess. I have to go back in there, though.” He wasn’t sick, but even if he was, the consequences of missing this deposition were more severe than the consequences of spreading the flu.

To his relief, she didn’t argue with him. Instead, she held something out. “I brought you some mints. If you want.”

The kindness was so unexpected and so undeserved that for a second he just stood there, waiting to see if this was a joke or something, even though the mints were right there in her hand. She kept holding them out, though, so he finally accepted them. Three Altoids, which he placed in his mouth and held on his tongue. “Thanks, Karen.”

“No problem.” She slipped her hands into her pockets. “Um, good luck in there.” With that, she hurried out of the bathroom, taking refuge back in her own office.

Matt breathed steadily as he waited for the Altoids to dissolve, wishing he could be good enough to deserve someone like her.

No time to dwell on fantasies, though. He had a job to do. Setting his shoulders back, he walked smoothly back into the conference room. “So sorry,” he said, voice clipped and professional. “I just swallowed something wrong.”

Samuel’s heart beat at a rabbit’s pace. The rest of the room might believe him, but the kid clearly did not.

~

The only good thing about what just happened—and Matt was ashamed for even thinking that way—was that by the time he got back to the room, Robson had moved on from questioning Samuel about Matt. Unfortunately, that also meant Matt had no idea how that conversation had gone. His hands shook incessantly. He hid them under the table.

The rest of the deposition was…bad, obviously. Of course it was going to be bad. But despite the pointed questions and tragic answers, it wasn’t a disaster from a legal standpoint. Samuel handled himself well, and the defense attorney seemed aware that making the kid actually cry would not help her case.

The three defense attorneys and the court reporter left pretty quick once it was over. Hannah and Samuel lingered, but not too long. Hannah clearly wanted to leave, get some air, maybe do something distracting, but Samuel latched onto Matt, pressing his face into Matt’s suit and wrapping his arms around him and not letting go for at least three minutes straight. Matt smelled salt and silently resolved not to let go or even move until Samuel moved first.

The kid didn’t pull back until his eyes were dry, although Matt suspected that everyone in the room could tell he’d cried. Even if the tears were no longer falling, the redness didn’t go away so easily. Matt remembered that.

Finally, Hannah and Samuel left. Normally, this was when Matt and Foggy would convene to compare notes and discuss how the deposition should affect their strategy. But Foggy was clearly not in a strategizing mood. As soon as the door shut behind Hannah and Samuel, he turned on Matt with the force of a small hurricane. “What the _hell_ was that?”

Matt took an instinctive step back. “Which part?” he asked weakly.

“You coached him!”

Matt cringed, room spinning around him again. “I didn’t, Fogs, I never—”

“Then what the hell was all that about _reflexes?_ ”

“I—” Matt caught himself fidgeting and made himself stop. “It’s not what you’re thinking. We just—we were talking, and he was worried about—about what he might have to say, and I just—I wanted him to know it wasn’t his fault…”

“He has a _therapist_ for that,” Foggy spat.

Matt’s eyes burned. He was about to suffocate. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not the one you should be apologizing to. _Shit_.” Foggy started pacing.

Matt wanted to bolt. But he couldn’t. Not until he knew…. “What else did Samuel say? About…about me?”

Foggy didn’t stop pacing. “He said you told him to talk to his therapist about it, which…cool, I guess.” Foggy did not sound like he thought it was cool at all. “And some bullshit about triggers, I dunno.”

Some of the pressure on Matt’s chest lessened, and he hated himself for it. How dare he find relief in the fact that Samuel hadn’t blurted out Matt’s secret in the face of the fact that Matt had gone and thrown the legitimacy of all of Samuel’s testimony into question, might even get Samuel’s testimony thrown out entirely. And from there it would be a simple matter to get the whole case dismissed. Matt wanted to throw up again.

“Just—I can’t believe this.” Foggy dragged his hand through his hair as his footsteps wore a path on the floor. “Why didn’t you _tell_ me?”

Matt’s mouth went dry. “I didn’t…I didn’t think it was coaching.”

“Excuse me?” Foggy pulled up sharply. “You’re not his therapist, you’re his _lawyer_. What else could it _possibly be?_ ”

Matt blinked hard. He…he was about to cry. Shit. “Fogs, I—” His voice cracked.

“ _Enough_ with the kicked puppy look, Matt. I can’t right now. Just—go home before I say something I’ll regret.”

Matt couldn’t breathe. He turned on his heel and grabbed his things and left as fast as he could, chin tucked down towards his chest against an icy wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John 3:19-20 ~ "This is the verdict: Light has come into the world, but people loved darkness instead of light because their deeds were evil. Everyone who does evil hates the light, and will not come into the light for fear that their deeds will be exposed."
> 
> I'll be transparent: I'm leaving today to be a counselor at a camp where some pretty bad things happened in my life (things that led me to experientially understand a lot of this trauma recovery stuff), so if any of you have maybe some particularly encouraging comments I would really appreciate that Although I realize this is quite a grim chapter....


	25. Ephesians 4:27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, guys. Whew. 2021, huh?
> 
> This is a long note - feel free to skip, although there’s a warning at the end! Anyway, I wanted to address two things that have come up in the comments, especially on the last chapter.
> 
> The first issue is how in the world it's okay for these lawyers to question Samuel about whether he liked what happened to him. I'm not a real lawyer yet, but as far as I know, those questions are permitted for two reasons: first, this is a deposition rather than an examination at trial; second, this is a civil case rather than a criminal case. Depositions are very broad, and plenty of stuff can be explored that would not be admissible at trial. As for the significance of civil vs criminal, it's true that in a criminal case, whether Samuel liked it would not be admissible because sexual assault of a child is a statutory crime. The child cannot legally consent, so the crime is a crime no matter what. However, in a civil case, Matt and Foggy need to prove damages to get a payout for Hannah and Samuel. Because Samuel doesn't have lasting physical harm from what happened to him, they have to prove that he has lasting emotional harm. The other lawyers are going to try to argue that he has less emotional harm, and convincing a jury that Samuel liked it (or, at least, didn't hate it) is relevant to proving that damages should be lower.
> 
> It's awful, I know. But that's my understanding of how the law works in this area.
> 
> The other issue that came up is more about storytelling than anything legal, and that's that several of you suspected that Matt's own history would come out during the deposition, and I wanted to take a moment to explain why I didn't do that. I totally agree that having it come out in the deposition would be pretty much the most devastating thing possible, and since I usually veer towards maximum angst, I see why those of you familiar with my writing would expect that. ;) But I intentionally didn't want to do that here because agency is super important in this fic. I knew from the beginning that I wanted the moments when Matt tells Foggy and Karen to be his choice. So I'm saving that revelation for a scene that I hope is much sweeter.
> 
> And now, for the warning: Matt is in a really dark place here. There's lots of violence and a hint of suicidal ideation, although it ends on a happier note. Please take care of yourselves!

Matt went straight home and stopped in the hallway, leaning his head back against the closed door, shutting his eyes. He was hollow, his insides replaced by a torrent of hot guilt.

He shouldn’t go out tonight. Guilt had a way of twisting his perspective until the only thing that mattered was bloodying his fists. If he couldn’t purge his own sin, he could at least purge the city. But that was exactly the kind of desperation that turned him from a vigilante to an assassin. He hadn’t killed Fisk, yeah, but in his blind need to do _something_ right, make _something_ better, he had killed Nobu. Never mind that it didn’t exactly stick.

He shouldn’t go out tonight.

Tugging off his tie, Matt drifted like a sleepwalker through his apartment. He should…what? What was he supposed to do now?

He should figure out what to say to Samuel, how to explain what he’d done, how to apologize. But he didn’t want to even _think_ about that.

He could figure out how to explain this to Foggy. He had to now, didn’t he? No more excuses. But the anger in Foggy’s voice from earlier was already ringing in Matt’s ears. He couldn’t—he couldn’t talk about what happened to him when Foggy was already furious with him. Foggy deserved to be angry with him without Matt undermining it with a tragic revelation, but if Foggy was _still_ angry after Matt told him…Matt didn’t think their friendship could _handle_ that.

He knew he couldn’t.

He was wondering if maybe the most productive thing he could do was simply to _sleep_ when some impulse took over. He grabbed his new phone. He just…he just needed to know if Geary was going to pay _somehow_.

Closing his eyes, Matt pulled up the newest article about the priest and listened.

_“Hell’s Kitchen priest takes plea deal in sexual abuse case.”_

Matt’s stomach flipped. He reminded himself that this wasn’t a surprise. Over ninety percent of criminal cases ended in a plea bargain. That didn’t mean Geary wouldn’t end up in jail.

_“Father Geary of Hell’s Kitchen entered an Alford plea to one count of possession of child pornography and one count of luring a child.”_

Matt’s eyes snapped open. What? Just those two?

_“Detective Sergeant Brett Mahoney of the NYPD arrested the priest for numerous crimes, and claims that Geary’s crimes were not limited to just one child. However, Lauren Billings, prosecutor, reminds the public that taking these other charges to trial requires proving the case by beyond a reasonable doubt. ‘We just don’t have the evidence,’ she explained.”_

Bullshit. They’d have the evidence if the DA had even _pretended_ to have enough of a spine to go against the Catholic Church.

_“By taking an Alford plea, Father Geary is simply acknowledging that prosecutors could win a conviction at trial on those two counts. The priest is not admitting guilt to either sexual conduct against a child or luring a child.”_

Matt gritted his teeth.

_“As a result of this plea, Father Geary faces two years in jail and five years on probation.”_

Matt shot to his feet. Two years in jail. Five years on probation. Geary was a _pedophile_ , and he was gonna be back on the streets in two years, and after five years he wouldn’t even be _supervised_. Matt was all too familiar with the most common requirements that came with probation for pedophiles: no access to his victims, restricted access to computers, and restriction from patronizing establishments populated primarily by minors. But that all ended after only five years.

Yeah, he’d be on the sex offender’s list, but it wasn’t like he’d have a probation officer monitoring him to make sure he stayed the hell away from kids.

The fury was building. Matt dropped his phone on the couch before he could do something stupid. Like throw it across the room.

This was it. This was all they were gonna get. Unless more people came forward, more victims…this was it.

Matt closed his eyes as something clawed up from within him, frothing and seething until the question was no longer _whether_ it would spill out, but _when_.

At least there was one good thing about winter: the sun set early.

Most people did not consider this a good thing. In truth, Matt didn’t even consider it a good thing most of the time. Today, though, it was salvation. It was a race against time and his own nature as he stripped out of his clothes and changed into the suit. The red suit this time. It offered more protection and stability for his ribs, but that was the least of his priorities right now. All he cared about was that he wasn’t hiding from his identity, from this one part of his life that actually made sense.

Pulling on the mask, he took the steps two at a time, only to stop at the sound of a faint _meow_ out on the roof. For the first time, the noise sent a spark of agitation through him. Opening the door, he stepped over the cat when she tried to rub against his legs. She paused, apparently bewildered by his behavior.

“In or out,” he said roughly. “You choose.”

She sat her haunches down squarely in the center of the doorway. Her stomach rumbled and she _mewed_ pitifully.

Matt felt the alien urge to push her one way or the other. But no, he needed to save the violence for the criminals. Picking her up, he made the decision for her, setting her just inside his apartment and slamming the door before she could change her mind.

There was no food out for her in his apartment. But it wasn’t like she’d starve. And at least she’d be warm. That was what Matt told himself to justify sprinting off into the night because the mere thought of going back into his apartment and doing something as mundane as _feeding a cat_ made him want to drive his fist through a wall.

~

The priest was still out on bail. The NYPD would arrive at any moment to lock him in a cell. It was better than he deserved.

Maybe Matt should just get there first.

He circled Geary’s house. It was located in a nice, quiet neighborhood close to St. Matthew’s. The kind where all the houses were evenly spaced away from the road and old trees had been transplanted to make the place look less brand new. Matt assumed the houses all adhered to strict rules regarding how neatly to tuck away their gardens in the spring and what colors of paint were acceptable.

The priest was sound asleep inside, dreaming peacefully by the sound of it. His last night as a free man. Matt stopped outside the front door, one hand on the knob. He could pick the lock in two seconds. Or what about the glass windows? He could break them with an elbow. Which would be more appropriate: for the devil to smash into the home like a storm, or to slip silently in through the front door?

The front door seemed more fitting.

Matt threaded the pick inside the lock, smooth as silk, and listened for the clicks until the knob rotated effortlessly under his hand. The door creaked as it opened, but the priest’s dreams were uninterrupted. Matt’s feet were so silent he might as well not have been there as he stepped into the house. The place was warm, too warm, _hot_ , compared to the icy night outside. Cluttered, too. The walls filled with paraphernalia, the floor lined with couches and chairs and side tables and lamps, filling up every inch of space. It reminded Matt of his grandmother’s house. She always kept it so packed full of things that there was barely room for oxygen to breathe.

Matt paused in front of the kitchen. On the counters sat boxes and tins and packages. Cookies, brownies, other desserts. None of them smelled like Geary. Matt detoured, driven by twisted curiosity. Pieces of paper were affixed, little notes smelling of other people. Peeling off a glove, Matt ran his fingers over one of the notes, feeling the tiny, spidery indents of handwriting.

_Dear Father,_

_We can’t believe this has happened to you. Please know that we still believe in you, and we are not the only ones. You are in our prayers._

_Blessings,_

_The Gallaghers_

Matt’s stomach flipped. Before he could stop himself, he felt more of the notes even as his hand began to shake with anger.

_Dear Father,_

_I’m just writing to say I know you’re innocent. You will always have my support. God will bless you even through this darkness._

_Love,_

_Alicia Molina_

_Dear Father,_

_John 16:33: “In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world!”_

_It’s not over yet!_

_Peace,_

_The Sanchezes_

_Dear Father,_

_We miss you! We are disgusted by these lies and are telling everyone who will listen what kind of man you really are. Justice will prevail. God will not forget you!_

_Most sincerely,_

_Ben and Susan_

Matt finally snatched his hand away, bile rising in his throat. Swallowing it down, he resisted the sick temptation to open the fridge. He knew what he’d find, judging by the stack of letters clustered under one of the cabinets. Casseroles and the like, all cooked up to make sure the pedophile didn’t feel forsaken.

Vibrating with rage, Matt couldn’t quite manage his usual silent tread as he climbed the stairs, one after the other. Not that it mattered. The priest was still asleep, cocooned in thick blankets, dreaming peacefully. Hands clenched at his side, Matt entered the bedroom.

The place was as cluttered as the rest of the house. Knickknacks, dusty but no doubt sentimental, littered almost every available surface. The bedside table bore four items: eyeglasses, a quietly-ticking alarm clock, a rosary, and a well-worn Bible.

Now that he was here, in this room, an unnerving calm settled over Matt. He tilted his head, coldly considering the best way to wake the priest. With pain, or with fear?

Fear, Matt decided. The priest would feel plenty of plain in a few minutes; better to let him feel unadulterated terror first.

Stalking closer to the bed, Matt reached out with one hand and flicked on the lamp near the headboard. He wanted Geary to know exactly what he was dealing with tonight. Then Matt ripped the blankets away.

The priest startled awake instantly, heart already racing. It took two long seconds before he seemed to recognize the demonic silhouette standing above him. Then his mouth moved wordlessly as a scream gathered in his throat; Matt could feel it in the tension in the priest’s vocal cords.

Matt really should’ve stopped the scream before it could escape, but he wanted the satisfaction of hearing it. The scream finally broke free, and Matt enjoyed it for a few moments before extending his hand. The priest scrambled backwards, slamming into his headboard, feet tangled in his blankets, only to freeze as Matt’s gloved fingers closed around his throat.

The world narrowed to the bedroom, to the priest’s thin, shallow breaths, to the frail, spidery fingers that started clawing at Matt’s hands.

Matt batted the fingers away with one hand like they were nothing and raised his other arm, lifting Geary slightly off the bed. The priest went up on his knees, panting in Matt’s face.

“You know why I’m here?” Matt asked, voice quiet but burning with the heat of the Devil.

Geary’s Adam’s apple bobbed under the pressure of Matt’s hand. “N-n-no—”

“You took a deal today. Tell me, Geary, do you think it was fair? Do you think it was just?”

The priest was shaking.

“This is your chance to confess,” Matt hissed.

The priest started shaking his head. “I—I didn’t—let me go—”

Matt talked over him, fighting to keep his voice even. “Because I know the truth. I know you did more than look at child porn when no one else was around. You weren’t satisfied with kids on a screen. You needed to find your own victims. But you didn’t admit to that.”

“There’s no—there’s no proof—”

“How many, Geary? How many were there?” Matt tightened his fist when the priest took too long to answer. “ _How many?_ ”

The priest gagged.

Matt loosened his hand. Just a little.

“If I tell you,” the priest gasped, “you’ll just kill me.”

Oh, Matt wanted to. It would be so, so easy. A solid punch to Geary’s chest might stop his heart; a hit to his head would bounce his brains around in his skull. Or Matt could just choke the life out of him.

The priest continued to hesitate. A fresh wave of fury washed through Matt, and his hand spasmed. His own heart thundered so loud in his ears that, for a second, it was impossible to tell whether Geary’s was still beating.

Matt loosened his hand a little. “I’m giving you one more chance.”

Geary quivered, reeking of fear. “S-six,” he stammered.

_Six._

Matt flung the priest across the room. The old man skidded across the floor, papery skin splitting at the friction. As far as Matt was concerned, he was lucky none of his bones were broken. Yet.

Geary’s groan was cut off by his own attempts to get to his feet, but Matt was faster, grabbing him by his bony arms and lurching him upright, dangling just above the ground.

“ _Six_ ,” Matt snarled.

“It’s—it’s not my fault,” Geary whined. “They wanted it, I’d never do that to someone who didn’t—”

“They’re _kids!_ ” Matt slammed the priest against the wall so hard he tasted blood in the air from a small tear in Geary’s skin.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I won’t do it again,” Geary babbled, begging, pleading.

His miserable heart pulsed too fast for Matt to know for sure that he was lying, but Matt wasn’t harboring any doubts. “Listen to me very carefully.” Matt leaned closer, put his mask right in front of Geary’s face. “You’re going to go to prison. You’re going to serve the full time. When you get out, you’re going to—”

What, leave Hell’s Kitchen? Go someplace where Matt wouldn’t be able to track him? Matt itched to tell him to leave the city, but he couldn’t let him hurt other people just because Matt hated the thought of keeping watch over the man. It wasn’t fair.

“You’re going to—” There was no justice here. “You’re not going to go anywhere near children ever again.”

Geary nodded immediately, desperately.

But he’d do anything to save himself. Besides, it wasn’t enough. That was the _bare minimum_ of what was required of pedophiles. It wasn’t a punishment and it wouldn’t bring back the innocence he’d stolen, it wouldn’t fix anything, it wouldn’t—

Letting out a guttural yell, Matt kicked out, snapping the priest’s leg hard enough for the bone to slice through skin. Geary wailed, clutching his pajama pants as blood soaked through the cotton.

The sound of his pain did nothing to sate Matt’s fury. In fact, it just pissed Matt off more as the wailing turned into whimpering sobs.

“Shut up!” Matt pinned him against the wall by the throat. “This _isn’t about you!_ ” He wasn’t the victim here; he didn’t deserve any witness to his pain. He should rot alone in the cold, abandoned but for the company of his own damning conscience.

Geary twitched feebly in Matt’s grasp, throat convulsing under Matt’s fingers. One hand ghosted over Matt’s face, nails catching on Matt’s helmet. There was nothing he could do to break free, but here he was, still fighting for his pathetic, depraved, revolting excuse for a life.

Matt squeezed harder. The world condensed to just the two of them, just a perpetrator and vengeance incarnate. And why else had Matt been given these abilities if not so he could do what God would not?

The priest gagged again, breath turning whispery until, suddenly, it failed entirely.

The room went deathly silent.

Matt’s hand unclenched of its own accord and the priest crumpled to the ground, his broken leg folding beneath him. Matt stumbled backwards, ears ringing, dizzy and slipping on spilled blood, as the priest gasped and gasped and gasped, his old heart straining to keep beating.

The room spun, distorted, until the narrow limits snapped. The rest of the world rushed in so strong that Matt stumbled again, bracing himself against a wall. He had to get out of here. His chest was too tight and the room was too hot. Geary hyperventilated on the floor while the cloying scent of his blood hung heavy in the air.

Matt was suffocating.

He smashed the bedroom window, the blast of chilled air a relief that vanished by the time he landed on the ground outside, sucking in a shocked breath as the movement jarred his ribs.

It didn’t change _anything_. It didn’t undo the abuse. It wouldn’t stop other priests from doing the same. It wouldn’t give Samuel his life back. It didn’t soothe the guilt still writhing like worms in Matt’s stomach.

Grasping at his ribs, trembling, he gritted his teeth against a low groan, wanting to lash out but lacking a viable excuse. His fists clenched at the sheer futility of it all. He’d been about a single second away from taking a life, and for _what?_ What did he even accomplish?

He hadn’t even managed to cool his own rage. It still burned like hellfire, and Matt felt a flicker of fear that it would consume him unless it found other fuel.

Then Matt’s head cocked as someone shouted in the distance: “Hey, man, just stay back!”

Matt exhaled slowly. That. That, he could fix.

He took off, steadfastly ignoring both the pain in his ribs and the tempest roiling inside him, until he found the crime. Petty robbery. The robber didn’t even have a gun, just a switchblade, which Matt smacked from his hand as soon as he dropped down from a low roof behind them, sending two heartrates skyrocketing.

Tossing the switchblade over his shoulder, Matt grabbed the would-be robber by the wrist and twisted until he dropped the wallet. Matt kicked it towards the victim, who snatched it up and bolted.

“Okay, okay,” the robber panted, hot breath billowing in Matt’s face. “Sorry, dude, I didn’t mean any— _ahh_ , _shit!_ ”

Matt released the man’s now-broken hand.

“I won’t do it again!” the man yelled. “I won’t!”

Matt wasn’t listening. He drew his right arm back, let a punch fly. The man’s head snapped back. Matt followed this up with a kick, sending the man sprawling in the snow. Matt’s heart raced but his mind was strangely focused, centered, as he calmly pinned the man to the ground and punched him again, and again, and again, until fresh blood splattering across Matt’s armor and staining his gloves.

Three minutes later, the man was unconscious, and Matt didn’t care. Matt wasn’t done.

Four minutes later, the man’s temperature was cooling from the snow, and Matt still wasn’t done.

Then sudden buzzing shocked Matt into stillness. The man’s phone in his pocket. Matt jerked back, heart in his throat.

The guy was alive. Breathing. But only barely.

If the phone hadn’t gone off—

Matt couldn’t think past the buzzing of the phone. Numb, he dug out the phone and cut off the hysterical voice demanding to know where the man was. “He’s under a streetlight at twelfth and thirty-first,” he rasped. “Get here before he freezes to death.”

He hung up and dropped the phone. It bounced off the man’s chest and landed in the snow as it started buzzing again.

Turning his back, Matt left the scene of the crime behind, focused only on getting as far away from it as possible. He didn’t want to think. Not about the robber in the snow who might not live through the night if someone didn’t find him, not about the priest bleeding in his bedroom, not about Samuel who probably hadn’t even realized that Matt wasn’t helping him. Not thinking was so much easier. Matt’s legs felt hollow, muscles weak. His feet carried him towards his apartment. That was his goal, anyway.

Which was why he didn’t understand how he came to be at Clinton Church. It certainly hadn’t been his conscious decision. But he was shivering, now, and his fury had drained, leaving him to feel the full potency of his broken ribs.

The foyer and sanctuary were empty. Matt crawled inside like an invasive bug slipping through a crack. His feet carried him to the altar and his head turned toward the Sacrament House, a miniature tower attached to the wall near the altar. Within the tower was stored the blessed Eucharist, the presence of Christ.

Down on his knees on the cold floor, Matt shriveled. He shouldn’t be here, didn’t belong here. His rage, his fear, his shame—it was caught in his lungs and woven through his sinew until he was inextricable from the worst parts of him. And it was uncontrollable, destroying him along with everyone else in its wake.

And he couldn’t control it. Couldn’t beat it.

Matt’s head hung limply between his shoulders, eyes stinging, throat tightening. What was he looking for? Condemnation? Punishment? To finally be struck down for good in holy judgement?

Wouldn’t that be a relief?

_God must flinch when He sees you._

A hand touched his back without warning. “Matthew?”

Matt jumped and clutched at his ribs. “Father,” he whispered when he had breath again. He hadn’t even noticed the priest’s approach.

Lantom crouched on the floor next to him in pajamas, a coat, and slippers. “You’re cold.” His voice sharpened. “And is that _blood?_ Are you hurt?”

Screwing his eyes shut, Matt shook his head.

“What on earth are you doing here, son?”

“I—” Matt’s voice cracked. His eyes burned with unshed tears behind his mask. “Father, I—”

The priest’s hands skimmed over his helmet, unbearably gentle. “Take this off. It’s just me here.”

Matt shook his head again, pulling slightly away. “Don’t. Don’t, I—”

“Why?”

“I can’t—” Matt couldn’t explain it. He just knew he needed this, needed some kind of shield between himself and the priest, between himself and God.

“What happened?”

There was so much kindness in his voice, so much gentleness, Matt couldn’t stand it. “I fucked up,” he choked out.

Something was welling in his chest, but Lantom grabbed him before it could spill over and pulled him close, wrapping his arms around the cold and bloody plates of Matt’s armor.

Matt didn’t know what was happening; he just knew he was crumpling against the priest, clinging to him. The sobs tore free from his chest at last, one after the other. His ribs were on fire, but that meant nothing when Father Lantom tightened the embrace, whispering that he was okay, that he was forgiven, that he was loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ephesians 4:27 ~ "And give no opportunity to the devil."
> 
> I also wanted to pause and just thank you guys so, so much for your comments on the last chapter. The whole counseling thing was much harder than I expected, tbh, and it was SUCH a relief to take breaks once in a while and read your comments as they came in. Seriously, thank you so much!


	26. Isaiah 54:10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it probably seems like Matt is taking forever to really Talk About Things, but I can at least promise that everything happening plot-wise from this point on is officially bringing him closer to that happening...even if it doesn't always feel that way.
> 
> With that perhaps slightly ominous intro, please enjoy the chapter.

Father Lantom never asked what Matt did. Maybe he thought it wouldn’t change the reassurances he kept giving, or maybe he thought Matt wouldn’t tell him anyway, or maybe he just didn’t want to know. He did, however, refuse to let Matt go out onto the streets again that night. Matt privately suspected Maggie must’ve told him what he’d tried to do once before, with two strangers and a crowbar. He didn’t have the energy to correct the priest. Besides, it was…nice. Being looked after like this.

Matt shed his armor and put on spare clothes that scratched his skin and smelled like someone else and pretended to sleep on the couch in Father Lantom’s office. But as soon as the sun began to rise, he stuffed his armor into a bag and left, wandered home, fed the cat, and crashed into bed again.

Several hours later, Matt woke snapped awake, his worst memories still tangled together right on the surface from the nightmares. His head was splitting from that type of headache that only came from crying. The cat was curled up on his arm and his fingers were asleep. For a few seconds, he lied there in the stillness, focusing on nothing other than the rise and fall of his own chest. Then, slowly, he reached for his phone and his stomach plummeted.

The news had exploded with reports that the NYPD was called to Father Geary’s house earlier than expected not to take him to jail but to take him to the hospital after Geary was assaulted in the dead of night by the devil who left a trail of scarlet blood in the snow.

Now Matt had three missed calls from Karen, two from Maggie, and _ten_ from Foggy. Foggy’s last voicemail warned that he was on his way over. He’d left it almost fifteen minutes ago, meaning he’d be here any moment now. Shoving the cat off the bed, Matt scrambled for clothes and both he and the cat escaped out onto the roof and into the city. He was two blocks away when he heard Foggy arrive at the building, three blocks when he heard Foggy break into Matt’s apartment with his spare key. Foggy cursed loudly when he was met by emptiness.

~

Matt didn’t go to work, nor did he go back home. He stayed out, finding quiet corners in bookstores and coffee shops to wait it out until that evening. He had a therapy appointment, and to his surprise, he didn’t want to skip. Skipping would mean sitting alone with nothing to distract him from the disaster he’d created. He’d rather talk to Dr. Dorner. Not about the deposition, though—the mere thought of bringing it up with her made him want to squirm. It was too fresh, too real. And what was Dr. Dorner even supposed to do about it? What was done was done. Same for Geary.

“Are you okay, Matt?”

Her voice was never _harsh_ , but it was even more gentle than usual today as he lowered himself stiffly onto the leather couch. He wasn’t sure what it was about him that clued her in—a tightness in his forced smile, tension in his posture, the restless tapping of his fingers against his cane, or something else entirely—but he didn’t have the energy to pretend everything was fine. “There was a problem at work.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Okay,” she said simply.

That was it? No fight?

“So what _do_ you want to talk about?”

He shrugged listlessly.

What was he doing here, again?

The clock on her wall ticked on and on. He idly remembered that he was paying her for her time. What a waste of money.

“Well,” she said suddenly, “have you been able to talk to Samuel about self-blame? Like we talked about last—”

“No.”

“Okay. Have you been able to talk to him at all, outside of work?”

“No. There’s been too much going on.”

“And…you don’t want to talk about any of it?”

He shook his head.

“I might be able to help,” she reminded him delicately.

He spoke through his teeth: “It’s a legal problem.”

“Ah. Got it. Well, would you say you’ve been able to focus pretty well on the legal problem, without everything else distracting you?”

Completely against his will, Matt let out a bitter laugh.

“…I see,” Dr. Dorner said. “Maybe we can work on that?”

It wouldn’t change anything. But as long as she wasn’t making Matt talk about specifics, it wouldn’t hurt. Probably. It was what he’d originally come to her for help with, after all. They’d gotten sidetracked. (Along with his life.) “Sure,” he said dully.

“What is it that’s distracting you? Thoughts and memories, like you mentioned before?”

That felt so overbroad, but it wasn’t wrong. “Sure.”

“Mm-hmm. So what do you do when you feel these thoughts and memories rising up?”

Apparently he put on a devil suit and beat people into pulp regardless of whether they were actually the problem. Matt forced himself to think about something—anything—else. “I stay busy.”

“You stay busy to prevent the memories from coming, or to stop them once they start coming?”

“Both, pretty much. And I meditate.”

“You meditate?” she repeated, sounding intrigued.

“Yeah. Helps me…ground myself. And feel closer to God. I, uh, recite verses, sometimes. Prayers. It takes my mind off things.” Never mind that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually prayed.

“Does it?” she asked. “Help, I mean.”

“Yeah. Usually. Mostly.”

She nodded. “Well, Matt, it sounds like you have a lot of helpful techniques for coping. You stay busy, you practice mindfulness, and you focus your thoughts on positive things like prayer. That’s all great.”

Matt frowned. Her heart beat too fast for her to be telling the whole truth. “But?” he asked.

If she was surprised by how easily he’d read her, she didn’t show it. “But, as helpful as those techniques are, they’re only a handful of tools. There are more tools available to you that I’d like to help you learn to use.”

He nodded immediately. This sounded better than talking about how his other methods failed him. “Tell me.”

“Well, let me back up and say there are a couple _categories_ of tools. Because different sets of tools help in different ways, and are more useful at different times.”

“…Okay.”

“And so far, all of the tools you seem to be using fall in more or less the same category.”

Ah. Apparently they were talking about the problems with his other methods anyway. “Which category?”

“The avoidant category,” she said gently. “Let me know if I’ve got this wrong, but it seems like you’re doing everything you can to avoid thinking about what happened to you.”

He blinked. “I’m moving on. I’ve _moved_ on.”

“Mm-hmm,” she said, not outright disagreeing. “When was the last nightmare you had about what happened?”

He gritted his teeth. “That’s different. It’s subconscious. I can’t control it.”

“But your subconscious can control you, unless you bring those subconscious thoughts and feelings up to the surface. That’s what allows you to evaluate them and take control _of_ them, instead of the other way around.”

His fingers tapped restlessly against his leg. “Okay, but—how.”

“Well, there’s a couple ways. Talking about what you’ve gone through, particularly with a professional like me or with other people you trust, can help.”

“I already told you what happened.”

“You told me briefly, yes, but the point of that conversation was to exchange information and give me context so I can understand your situation. What I’m talking about, though, would be a conversation where the point is for _you_ to confront what happened to you. Even the worst details.”

He stifled the urge to recoil. “How is that supposed to help?”

“A couple of ways,” she said again. “Confronting the traumatic memory can help you contextualize it. The way PTSD affects the brain make it almost impossible for a person being triggered or having a flashback to distinguish between _now_ and _then_. Perspective is lost. But if you tell your own story, you can put the whole event into context. And then there’s the issue of fragmentation.”

“Fragmentation?”

“Yes. Traumatic memories tend to be stored in our brains in fragments. This makes them feel unresolved, and unresolved memories tend to resurface—both consciously and subconsciously. You might have intrusive thoughts about them while you’re awake, or, if you don’t work through them consciously, they might resurface in nightmares. But telling your story can help you put the pieces together, make it less fragmented, so that your mind can put those memories to rest, so to speak.”

“So, what, I just…tell you what I remember?”

“If you want. You could also write it down, and then we can go over it together.”

Matt grabbed that option like it was a lifeline. “Write it down. I’d rather write it down.”

“Okay,” she said easily. “Be as descriptive as you can, but it’s okay if it takes a while to work up to the details. I also have a list of prompts I can send with you to help you get started. What do you think?”

“I know how to tell a sequential story.” It was the bare minimum required for competency as a witness.

“The prompts still might help,” she said, but didn’t force him to take them. “Would you like to write it down here, or at home?”

“At home.” He didn’t want anyone watching him, not even her.

“Will you bring what you’ve written back so we can talk about it? You don’t have to, but you might find it helpful.”

“Yeah.” He tried to smile. “Like homework, right?”

There was an answering smile in her voice. “Something like that.” She leaned closer. “Listen, Matt. Studies show that this helps in the long term. But in the short term, it will probably be upsetting. It’ll bring up all the things you’re trying not to think about, and it might hit you all at once. So make sure you have things you can do to help you relax again. Like spending time with friends or doing something physical for the endorphins.”

Well, he doubted she’d find it acceptable to go out on patrol after writing. Still. “Not a problem.”

At that moment, the clock chimed and Matt stood up to leave, but Dr. Dorner seemed reluctant to release him out into the night. She hovered as he collected his cane and jacket, and she followed him as he headed out of her office towards the front door of the building. “And you can always have another appointment with me,” she reminded him. “Sooner than scheduled, if you want.”

“Yeah, thanks,” he said distractedly.

So he was _avoidant_ , huh?

 _Pussy_ , Stick said.

 _Coward,_ Father Sheridan said.

Fine.

~

He sat cross-legged on the floor, like he was about to meditate. He wished he had his laptop so he could type; he didn’t want to know what his voice sounded like while…talking about this.

Instead, he opened the voice app on his new phone. Took a deep breath. Started talking in short, halting statements.

“I was fourteen years old.”

“I was at summer camp.”

“Father Sheridan was the priest.”

“I saw him twice a day for two weeks.”

He stopped, took another breath.

“Now I don’t know where he is.”

He wasn’t sure how relevant that was, actually. He realized he was biting his lip and made himself stop.

“I don’t know if there were any other complaints against him.”

He still didn’t know if the priest had hurt anyone else. He just knew it couldn’t have happened while Matt was at the camp. Should he mention that?

No. How would he explain how he knew?

Shaking his head, Matt tried to move on. He was supposed to write about his trauma, after all. He squared his jaw. Speculating about the priest was probably somehow _avoidant_.

“I went to him to confess my anger. He said he could tell I had the devil inside. He said he could tell that I liked sinning. He was right about all of it.”

Matt was biting his lip hard enough to make it bleed, and his hands were shaking a little.

“He asked about my family. I said I didn’t have any left.”

“He asked about my friends. I said I didn’t have any.”

“He asked if I was close to anyone else. I said no.”

A lump was rising in Matt’s throat, burning. He should’ve realized what Sheridan was after. He should’ve lied, said he had friends or family or _someone_ , _anyone_ who cared. He should’ve known Sheridan was looking for evidence that Matt was alone to the point of vulnerability. But how could he, when Stick had so thoroughly drilled it into him that relationships _were_ vulnerabilities?

He wet his lips, tasted blood. He swallowed and kept going.

“He asked about other sins I’d committed. He asked if I’d ever done something with an adult that I regretted. I said yes. I was thinking about Stick.”

He stopped. How was he supposed to explain _that_ to his therapist? Maybe he could give her some kind of redacted version. Or would that defeat the point?

He could deal with it later.

“He asked me to tell him what happened. But of course I didn’t. That made him upset. I felt—”

How to describe it.

He didn’t know. He moved on.

“Eventually, he asked to see my face. He met me outside of the confessional. He took me to his office. He said he didn’t want us to be overheard. He said that was for my sake. So no one would know how sinful I was. I was so stupid, I believed him.”

His therapist would probably not appreciate that.

Clearing his throat, he restated simply: “I believed him.”

~

Matt was talking about what happened on the fifth day when all of a sudden he was _there_ , on the worn couch in that office above the chapel, breathing in the sharp smell of pine, and he couldn’t take it anymore. Shooting out his hand, he paused the recorder and got to his feet, pacing, hands on his hips.

He wasn’t back there. The air around him smelled like his apartment, not a dusty confessional or Father Sheridan’s ancient office or the sharp scent of pine that smothered the whole camp. The sounds around him were all familiar: the hum of his refrigerator, the buzz of the billboard outside. Fran’s radio across the hall. The couple downstairs watching a movie. Cars outside. A conversation in Spanish.

“It’s over,” he whispered through gritted teeth. “It’s _over_.”

It didn’t feel over. His chest was tight and his throat burned and his eyes stung and it didn’t feel over.

He didn’t even think about what options were available to drown out the past. Didn’t think about calling Foggy or Karen or Claire. He grabbed keys and wallet, needing to get out of his apartment as fast as possible.

The office. He just had to get to the office, and then he could do something productive. Bury himself in cases if he had to. He didn’t give a shit if he was being _avoidant_.

He was hit by a blast of cold air the second he stepped out of the apartment complex. He’d forgotten his jacket, but that seemed like such an unnecessary thing to go back for.

He was halfway to the office when he realized he’d forgotten his cane and glasses. He felt exposed, but there was nothing for it but to keep going. He kept his head down, eyes down, and didn’t allow himself to think about what he’d do if he came across someone who recognized him.

He was unlocking the front door to the office when he realized that, without his laptop, there was basically nothing he could actually accomplish. He stood there in the doorway for a moment, off-balance, trying to figure out what to do instead, trying not to let the fissures of anxiety spread.

Well, he couldn’t just stand there. He stepped inside and closed the door. He was shivering, but that made sense. It was cold outside. It was cold in the office, too. Cold and empty. His breathing was too loud for the quiet and he was trying desperately to ignore the fact that he was barely holding himself together.

It was fine. This was fine. Maybe he had some…printed braille files he could review. Or he could organize his desk. Or practice giving an oral argument on one of their other cases without notes. See? Plenty of things to do. It was fine.

He walked purposefully through the lobby toward his own office. He didn’t want to turn on the heater—didn’t want Foggy asking what he was doing at work at whatever time it was today—so he decided to sequester himself in the smaller room and hope the temperature rose incrementally. Once in the room, he turned, only meaning to close the door.

But he slammed it instead, hard enough to make the door rattle, and somehow that was it: that tiny loss of control was enough to send Matt plummeting over the edge. The sobs began rising up from deep in his chest before his knees hit the carpet as he sank to the floor.

The sobs built in intensity, bursting forth in wave after wave like they had a life of their own and he was just a passive container they’d finally outgrown. He hunched over himself, curled as tight as he could into a ball, but he couldn’t stop or silence them.

“ _God_ ,” he groaned. He didn’t know if it was a prayer or a curse, if he was begging God for mercy or threatening Him, threatening that if He didn’t _end_ this—

He couldn’t breathe.

“God, _please_ ,” he gasped. “Just—just— _please_ —”

He couldn’t get the words out. But he knew what he wanted, knew suddenly exactly what he was asking for. He just wanted—just for five minutes, he just wanted—he _needed_ —to not be _alone_.

No one was coming. Foggy and Karen had gone home for good. Maggie and Father Lantom and Claire were never ones to come looking for him uninvited, and even if they did, they’d go to his _apartment_ , they wouldn’t look for him _here_.

He curled up even tighter, trembling, forehead pressed to the dirty floor. Between sobs, he whispered _please, please, I’m sorry_ into the empty room.

And then he heard a key in the lock.

He froze, mouth half-open in the middle of a shaky inhale.

The door opened. Karen’s heart was already beating too fast, like she’d—like she’d _heard_ something from outside. “Hello?” she called nervously. “Is anyone in here?”

Matt’s last sob was still caught in his throat. He didn’t move. Couldn’t.

There was a _click_ , followed by the hum of electricity. Lights flickering on overhead.

Karen’s heels slowly _click-clacked_ through the office. “Hello? I thought I heard…” She checked her own office first, then Foggy’s, heartrate spiking each time she crossed the threshold, like she was expecting someone to grab her.

Matt should call out. Tell her it was just him, so she could stop being so afraid. But he still couldn’t move, couldn’t even make a sound. Like she was a miracle, and if he moved, she’d vanish. Or she was a gift, and if he drew her attention to himself, he’d no longer deserve her presence.

Her footsteps were headed for his office next.

At the very least, Matt should sit up. Wipe his face. She shouldn’t find him here on the floor, tears running silently down his cheeks.

The door creaked as it opened. A light flicked on overhead.

“ _Matt?_ ” She dropped to her knees next to him, hands hovering over him like she was afraid to touch him. “Are you okay? Is this about the priest? Are you hurt? _Shit_ , what happened?”

Oh. She thought he was injured. He tried to open his mouth, tried to say, _I’m fine_ , or at least, _I’m not hurt_. Couldn’t.

“Matt?” Her hands were on his face now, tilting his head up so she could see him. He caught the exact moment when she saw the tears still spilling from his eyes, heard it in the flutter of her heartbeat and her breath. “Oh, Matt…” She leaned in, pressing her face into the crook of his neck, arms going around him in an awkward hug.

It unlocked everything caught in Matt’s chest. The sobs tore through him, renewed, shaking his entire body. Karen shifted, trying to pull him partly upright, and the instant he realized it was so she could hold him better, he surged against her before he could think twice, pressing into her like if he just got close enough, she could reach inside and take away all the pieces of him that felt so shredded.

Time lost all meaning. The rest of the world was gone. It was just the two of them left in some strange twilight reality. He kept expecting to wake up, find himself alone in his bed. This was a dream, right?

“Shh, shh,” she breathed, not in the impatient or awkward way you shushed someone who was annoying you, but in the gentle, intimate way that someone might hush an upset child. She stroked her hand through his hair. “You’re okay, Matt. You’re okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Isaiah 54:10 ~ "Though the mountains be shaken and the hills be removed, yet my unfailing love for you will not be shaken nor my covenant of peace be removed," says the LORD, who has compassion on you."
> 
> I should explain: there is a LOT of research on the pros and cons of working through trauma by revisiting it like this, and there is a HUGE spectrum of how to do that. (The spectrum I've unofficially identified is everything from exposure therapy on one end, to using drugs to suppress emotions during recall on the other.) I don't pretend to suggest that the approach taken in this fic (journaling) is the best approach, but it has proven effective for some individuals. That being said, I personally don't think the psychologist should have let Matt try it out on his own, rather than doing it in the relative safety of the office. And Matt should certainly not have done it without plans in place to help him shift out of that experience. (The onus is on the psychologist, though: Matt couldn't necessarily be expected to take care of himself while dealing with the memories he's revisiting.) My point in all this is: please talk to your own therapist/psychologist before trying anything like this at home!
> 
> Also, a quick note re something that came up in the comments: although it's common to say things like "It's okay" or "You're okay" when trying to comfort someone, a better route is probably just saying something like, "I'm here." Otherwise, there's a risk that the person you're trying to comfort will feel invalidated (after all, clearly it's not okay) or feel pressure to "become" okay to meet your expectations or make you feel like you've helped. I have Karen say that here because she says variants of "It's okay" a lot in the show, but some commenters pointed out that the troubles with this line are worth mentioning for those of us who may find ourselves in Karen's position.


	27. Galatians 6:2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an absolute monster of a chapter, both in terms of length and in terms of how tricky it was to write. Two psychologists graciously allowed me to pester them about this scene. Still, I'm not a psychologist myself, and some things here have been condensed for pacing reasons. Please don't take any of this as advice for yourself unless you've talked to your own therapist about it too!

He didn’t know how long they stayed there, tangled together like that. Long enough for his body to ache. She must be sore, too, but she didn’t move. She just kept holding him.

He had to get a grip. When he made himself pull away, her shoulder was a wet, disgusting mess where he’d pressed his face into it. He had to figure out how to apologize.

She should be upset, but she simply said his name, very quietly.

He had to apologize. He had to _explain_. “I—” But that was as far as he got before his throat closed up again.

“Shh, it’s okay.” Her arms were still around him, though not as tightly as before. “You don’t have to say anything.”

No, he did. He knew her. She had _questions_. It would be unthinkably selfish to cry on her like that and then refuse to explain himself. And he was holding onto control—tenuously, but still—enough that he just might be able to force himself to tell her. About what happened to Samuel, at least, if not about what happened to him. Except it was all tangled up, and maybe he had to stop separating it all out like that and just _try_.

So he tried. “I’m—I’m sorry, Karen, I’m so sorry—”

“For what?”

“It’s—this case, I can’t—I’m making everything worse, it’s not fair to you—or Foggy—or anyone—but I can’t—” Shit, fresh tears were springing to his eyes, what the hell, not _again_. “I have—I have to tell you—”

“Hey, hey.” She moved closer, sliding one hand to hold the side of his face. “Deep breaths. It’s okay. Just tell me, is anyone hurt?”

What, physically? He mutely shook his head, wiping at his eyes.

“Is anyone in danger?”

Again, no.

“Okay.” She followed her own advice, took a deep breath, and then tilted her head to rest her forehead against his. “Whatever you think you have to tell me, do you think it can wait?”

What?

He never, in his life, would’ve expected Karen Page to say something like that.

“Because, um…” There was quiet sound as she wet her lips. “I know…I know something happened to you. Something bad. I don’t know exactly what, but I have ideas. And, um…just, look, do you remember when I told you about Wesley? And…and my brother?”

Not talking was helping keep the tears at bay. He nodded.

“Okay. So. When I told you that, it was…because I was desperate. You needed to know why Fisk was hunting me, and I…I needed you to think twice about, um…you know…”

“Yeah,” he breathed, all but soundless.

“And I just think…I’m _glad_ I told you, but it would’ve been…nicer, I guess, if…if telling you was more like, um…my choice?” Her voice went up at the end, like it was a question. “If I hadn’t felt backed into the corner,” she explained, sounding more confident now, like she was working it out as she spoke. “If I told you just because I wanted to.”

He knew what she meant. He also didn’t.

“So, listen.” Now both her hands were cupping his face. “If you _really_ want to tell me, I’m listening. We can do it right here. But if…but if you’re just trying to tell me because you feel guilty or you think you owe me something, I’m trying to tell you I’d, um…I’d rather you waited. Until it’s the right time for you.”

What if he had no idea when that might be?

“Matt?” she whispered. “What do you think?”

He thought if he said anything, he was liable to start crying again. He just nodded shakily.

“You agree?”

Another nod.

Sighing softly, she pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Okay. Should we go back to your place or mine?”

He blinked. “What?” His voice was still terrifyingly unsteady.

“I really don’t feel comfortable leaving you alone right now, but it’s your choice. Your place or mine?”

Why was she being so kind to him? _How?_ What were her _ideas_ of what happened? He should tell her the truth in case she was imagining something worse.

(What would be worse?)

“Matt?” Her gentle voice pulled him out of his thoughts, refocused him.

“Sorry.” He sounded…slightly less about to fall apart. He should say her place. It’d be more convenient for her. But he really didn’t want to go anywhere but home. And somehow he thought she wouldn’t be happy if he made his decision based on her preferences rather than his own. “Can…can we go to my place?”

~

She didn’t make him talk about it. They went back to his place and ordered in and watched stupid videos online and argued about who should take the bed or the couch. She won. He took the bed.

The next morning, Foggy called.

 _“Hey.”_ His voice was quiet. Subdued. Drained. _“Can I come over?”_

To yell at Matt more? To tell him Hannah fired them? To say the judge already heard what happened and threw out the entire case?

“Sure,” he answered bleakly.

_“I’ll be right over.”_

Great.

“Want me to stay?” Karen asked.

Yes? No?

Easier to only have to track one other person, Matt decided. “I’ll be fine.”

“Do you _want_ me to stay?”

Right; he should be clearer. “No. Not—it’s nothing personal, it’s just…easier if it’s one-on-one.”

“No problem. I get it.” She took his hand, squeezed it, and slipped out before Foggy could get there. And that was that. No fighting, no interrogating. He was left slightly stunned in her wake.

Shaking himself out of it, he put in the effort of changing into jeans instead of sweats and swapped his hoodie for a button-down. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d thought it necessary to dress up for Foggy. But today it really felt like appearances mattered. The least he could do was put on semi-professional clothes so Foggy would know he was taking this seriously. He ran a hand through his hair, hoping it was laying mostly flat.

About ten minutes later, he heard Foggy’s heavier footsteps coming up the stairs. Matt opened the door before Foggy even knocked. Like he was trying to prove that he wasn’t running from this. Or something.

Foggy sort of twitched in surprise. “Hey, man. Give me the chance to knock, at least. Kinda blows your cover.”

“No one’s around,” Matt pointed out, stepping back and holding the door open. “You want a beer or something?”

“No, thanks.” Foggy’s voice was unusually cool. He ventured down the hall ahead of Matt and sat down on one of Matt’s dining room chairs. The hard, uncomfortable ones.

It was a bad sign. Matt leaned against the opposite wall next to his medicine cabinet, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

“So,” Foggy began awkwardly. “I guess you got the news.”

Matt tilted his head.

“Geary’s plea deal.”

Oh.

“Don’t think beating him up’s gonna change anything, though.”

Matt didn’t respond.

“They said he was strangled. Almost to death.”

“Not,” Matt started to stay, only to stop when his voice came out thin and whispery. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Not to death.”

Foggy fell silent. Staring at him, probably. Then he seemed to decide that he didn’t want to go near that with a ten-foot pole. (Matt didn’t blame him.) (Matt was surprised Karen hadn’t questioned him more about it, but he wasn’t surprised that Foggy was staying far away.)

Foggy rubbed his hands over his knees. “So, I’ll get right to it. Walker and Robson already complained to the judge about you and Samuel. She’s moving for Samuel’s testimony to be thrown out. After that, it’ll be a motion to dismiss the whole case.”

Matt pressed his lips together so hard they went numb.

“I’ve been working on a response, trying to explain what was going on. You weren’t coaching, you were just trying to help a kid deal with his trauma. But…” Foggy sighed, long and loud. “It’s gonna be a hard fight.”

Matt just nodded.

“So I’m gonna need to know everything you told Samuel.”

Matt’s stomach dropped. “What?”

“I mean, the judge might ask Samuel himself, so I’ll need to talk to him too, but first I’m really hoping you’ll be honest with me for once and just tell me what the hell else you two talked about.”

All Matt could hear were their heartbeats: Foggy’s fast and angry, Matt’s fast and terrified.

“Matt.”

“Um.” Matt closed his eyes, wet his lips, and started working backwards in his memory. “I talked to him about, uh, triggers. Like he said. He had a panic attack at school, and Hannah called me to help him deal with it. You were there when she called.”

“Did you tell him anything about the case?”

Matt shook his head. “We just talked about what happened at school. And I told him to talk to his therapist.”

“Okay. Good. What else?”

“I…I told him about civil cases compared to criminal. You know about that, too.” Matt kept his eyes closed. “That was the day that he talked to me about…about what Geary did to him. About how it felt good. I told him it was just a reaction. Nothing—nothing to be ashamed of.”

“And?”

Matt opened his mouth.

But he couldn’t say it. Not when Foggy was so angry. Not when that meant admitting Matt had been so blinded by _his own_ _victimhood_ that he couldn’t see how he was ruining this kid’s shot at getting justice, at making the priest pay for what he did.

(Matt was starting to realize he’d _never_ be able to say it, there’d always be a reason not to, and that was just the way it was.)

Foggy’s voice sharpened. “ _And?_ ”

He couldn’t say it.

“Dude.” Foggy dragged his hand over his face. “I don’t get it. I _need to know this_. What, was it about Daredevil or something?”

Matt shook his head, relieved to give Foggy that much of an answer but terrified of what was coming next.

“What, then?” Foggy demanded. “What could _possibly_ be so bad that you won’t tell me, _your partner_ , about something that might’ve screwed up our case for a little kid like Samuel? I mean, come on, where’s Martyr Matt when I need him?”

Okay, yeah. So Foggy thought Matt was the most despicable person on the planet. Matt couldn’t disagree with him.

Foggy made a quiet sound of disbelief. “Okay. Wow. You…you realize I’m just gonna ask Samuel, right? Like, not even to bust your ass about it or anything. I _literally_ have to. His case is more important than…” He waved his hand. “Whatever you’re so worried about.”

“I know,” Matt said thinly.

“Wait, you know?” Foggy leaned forward. “Look, I’m…I’m _so_ confused right now. And pissed off, actually. Which I know you can tell. And, man, I know I messed up ambushing you about it the other day, but this is _different_. Would you just tell me what’s going on with you?”

He couldn’t. He’d kept the secret so long now, and had grown inside him. Removal would require surgery.

Let Foggy ask Samuel. Maybe Samuel would tell the whole story, maybe not. He probably would. Foggy was hard to resist.

Maybe that would be easier. Better. Samuel could tell Foggy, and Matt wouldn’t have to actually say the words himself. ( _When_ did he become such a coward? Making an eleven-year-old kid say what he was too afraid to admit.) And then Matt could wait, get a read on Foggy, figure out Foggy’s reaction. And decide what to do from there.

The silence stretched out between them, heavy.

Finally, Foggy pushed himself to his feet. “So this is really how it’s gonna be, huh.”

Matt wanted to apologize, but that would probably just make Foggy angrier.

“Okay, then.” Foggy brushed nonexistent dirt off his pants. “Guess I’ll go…schedule a meeting with Samuel.”

Matt could barely bring himself to nod. He held still as Foggy walked past him.

But then Foggy paused and turned around. “When I find out whatever it is you’re not telling me…I’m thinking I’m either gonna be really mad, or really sad. Think you could give me a hint as to which one?”

Matt wondered which would be worse. “Both,” he said quietly. “Probably.”

Foggy sighed. Then, with no warning, he reached out to pull Matt close.

Matt pushed half-heartedly against him. “Fogs, stop—”

“Shut up and let me hug you.”

“Why—”

Foggy wrapped his arms around him. “Because you’re still my best friend, that’s why. And whatever this is, we’re gonna get through it.”

Matt started to breathe in, and stopped when his breath caught.

“Um.” Clearing his throat, Foggy stepped back. “Anyway. I guess I’ll let you know how it goes with Samuel. Unless you want to tell me first?” His voice went up at the end, hopeful. Foggy was always hopeful.

“Sounds good,” Matt managed.

Foggy’s breathing hitched like he wanted to say something else. Instead, he walked away.

~

Going to therapy was, objectively, a terrible idea today. But Dr. Dorner invited him to schedule another appointment after writing down the whole story or whatever she called it, and…frankly, she was the only person he could yell at right now besides criminals.

Not that he’d yell at her. Probably. She was just trying to help, never mind if she made everything worse instead.

Hey, at least they had that in common.

And at least he wouldn’t have to talk about the priest. Keeping Daredevil a secret had clearly been the right call.

(She’d disagree, probably. But she’d also be forced to turn him in to the NYPD as soon as she found out that Matt had every intention of continuing to hurt people. Matt knew. He’d checked the ethical requirements for psychotherapists. Repeatedly.)

“Hi, Matt,” she greeted him. “How was—”

“I did what you said, and it was a _disaster_.”

“Oh.” Everything about her—voice, posture—instantly shifted as she lowered herself to her chair. (Matt didn’t sit; he paced restlessly.) “I’m so sorry to hear that. Can you tell me what happened?”

She wasn’t _sorry_. She was just sitting there in her stupid therapist chair using her stupid, unruffled therapist voice. “I wrote it down,” he hissed through gritted teeth, “I tried _bringing it to the surface_ , and I _completely fell apart_.”

“What does _fell apart_ mean?”

“What do you _think_ it means?” he shouted. “I was—I was _hyperventilating_ in my _office_ and my _ex-girlfriend_ found me and—” He broke off.

Dr. Dorner tensed. “She reacted poorly?”

“No, she—” Matt shut his eyes tight. “I just—I didn’t—she’s not supposed to see me like that.”

“I’m sorry,” Dr. Dorner said simply. “You weren’t ready for her to see that.”

Implying he somehow _would_ be, eventually? Ha. Not likely.

“I’m guessing you didn’t explain it to her?”

No, but Matt didn’t want to admit that out loud. Not when he’d last left her office with the express purpose of being less _avoidant_.

Of course, she read his answer in his face. “It’s okay, Matt. If you don’t feel that telling her what happened is a safe option for you, you don’t have to.”

He zeroed in on her, but she wasn’t lying. It didn’t make sense, and confusion momentarily dulled his anger. “I don’t?”

“You don’t,” she repeated calmly. “By coming to see me, by journaling, you’ve started a process of healing. But—”

“Do I have to keep journaling?”

She hesitated. “It’s up to you. Just remember, writing about your painful memories and feelings _will_ over time make them form a more cohesive narrative. A cohesive narrative is less likely to intrude when you don’t want it to. And studies also show that processing trauma through journaling reduces other PTSD symptoms.”

Oh. Did he _have_ other PTSD symptoms? He didn’t even want to know.

Dr. Dorner was still talking. “But it should only be done when you have a plan to help you recover from the stress of it.” She didn’t ask if he’d done anything to cope with the stress last time, but she did say, “Do you think next time you’d be comfortable doing it here in the office, where I can help ground you afterwards?”

Matt hated the very idea, but he wasn’t so sure that was a good enough reason to say no. “I don’t know.”

“That’s okay,” she said immediately. “We don’t have to figure it out right now. All of this, it’s a long process, and you get to set the pace.”

“But what if…” He swallowed. “What if the pace I set isn’t moving forward at all?”

“I’ll try to help you recognize that. But no one can make you move forward.”

“What if I can’t make _myself_ move forward?”

“Then you’re not ready yet,” she said simply.

He scoffed.

“Matt. It’s okay to not be ready yet.”

“It’s really not.”

“Why do you say that?”

He fidgeted, rubbing his thumb over his other fingers. “I…” The words caught in his throat like they were made of thorns.

But Dr. Dorner waited patiently.

“I…” He had to say this. He had to tell her. He needed help. He’d come to her in the first place because he was afraid his unresolved issues would fall back on Samuel, and now that was _exactly_ what had happened. “I hurt the case.”

She didn’t react in shock, or anger, or disgust. Right. Because her client was Matt, not Samuel. “Tell me?”

Sitting down, he explained it. Matt’s conversations with Samuel. The fact that Matt hadn’t told Foggy. The deposition. The defense attorneys. Foggy’s anger and his threat to talk to Samuel.

When he finished, Dr. Dorner simply said, “I see.”

Matt kept his gaze aimed at the floor. “So, yeah. It’s gonna come out, one way or the other.”

“Would you rather Foggy learns the truth from Samuel?”

“No. It’s not fair for a kid to have to talk about it. I should be able to tell Foggy myself.”

“I’m not asking about what’s fair or what you think you should be able to do. I’m asking about what feels better for you. What feels safer.”

Matt shook his head. “It’s not that simple. It’s not just about safety or what I feel. I’m sorry, but it’s not. There’s a kid involved, not to mention a legal case that I’m responsible for.”

“Okay,” she said evenly. “We won’t ignore those factors. But first, can you humor me and tell me which option feels safer?”

He rubbed at the back of his neck. “I don’t…I don’t know. Letting Samuel tell Foggy feels _easier_. I don’t know about safer.”

“I’m curious. If it weren’t for this case, would you even want to tell Foggy?”

No, he didn’t want to tell Foggy.

But…he wanted Foggy to _know._ If this case had made anything clear, it was that everything Sheridan did to him didn’t just go away with time. It was…not part of _him_ , but part of his story. A part of his story he didn’t want to keep dealing with alone.

“Yes,” he whispered. “I want to tell him.”

“All right.” She seemed to think for a while. “Here’s what I’m worried about, Matt. It’s still possible that telling Foggy is something you’re just not ready for. If you push yourself, that conversation could be traumatizing. That would set you _back_ , not move you forward.”

“But how am I even supposed to know if I’m ready?” Matt burst out. “What if I’m _never_ ready?”

She didn’t dismiss his concerns; she simply asked a new question. “When you think about telling Foggy, what do you imagine his reaction might be?”

Matt stifled a wince. “He said, when he finds out what I’m keeping from him, that he’ll either mad or sad. I think he’ll be both.”

“Do you think he’ll be mad at _you?_ ”

“Yes.”

“Because of what happened with Sheridan, or because of what happened with Samuel’s case?”

Matt paused. That was…an important distinction. “I don’t know. Definitely because of Samuel’s case, though. I’m not sure about the other part.”

“What kinds of things has Foggy gotten mad at you about before?” she probed.

Foggy didn’t get mad often. When he did, it was serious. “Keeping secrets,” Matt said quietly.

“Any specific kind of secret, or secret-keeping in general?”

He couldn’t tell her about Daredevil; he _couldn’t_. “In general,” he answered. “I think. But…also secrets that hurt him. Or affect our cases. So…” He spread his hands.

Dr. Dorner was quiet for a moment, as if processing. Then: “Why do you think you were able to tell Samuel?”

“What?”

“What was it that allowed you to talk to him about your trauma? He was the first person you told, wasn’t he?”

Matt wet his lips. “I wanted to help him. I didn’t want him to be alone. I…I wanted to be a safe person for him.”

“Did he seem safe to you?”

Matt raised his eyebrows. “He’s just a kid.”

“So…?”

“Yes, he’s…safe.” Matt’s lips twisted around the word.

“What made him safe?”

Matt rolled his eyes up towards the ceiling. “I don’t know. He—he didn’t know me, at the time, I guess.”

“Why does that matter?”

On the one hand, Matt hated getting pinned down like this. On the other, he had to try to play along. He understood from years of sifting through a witness’ answers that follow up questions like this were often exactly what it took to get to the heart of someone’s story. “Hearing what happened…it wouldn’t change how he thought of me. He wouldn’t have to start…reevaluating past conversations, figuring out how all our history might be…tainted…by what happened.”

Her breathing changed just a bit at the word _tainted_ , but she didn’t argue the point. “I assume that’s part of why you were able to tell me?”

“Yeah. Probably.”

“But you said you told a friend of yours. So I assume your friendship with her is…different?”

Claire. Matt pressed his lips together. “Yeah. She…she respects me, I know she does, but she’s also not…disillusioned. About me. Pretty much from the start, she knew I had…issues. So I guess I figured this…wouldn’t change that much?”

“That makes sense,” Dr. Dorner assured him. “So, you’ve told Samuel, and your friend, and me. What do you think it would take for you to feel comfortable telling Foggy?”

Matt pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know.”

She waited patiently.

He sighed. “If I knew how he’d react.” But that was stupid. Impossible. A fantasy. He tried to think of something else, anything else, that could make this work. He came up empty.

“What about this,” Dr. Dorner began. “Can you remember a time when Foggy felt safe?”

Yes. Up until he walked away from Matt, slammed the door and left Matt alone, bleeding and broken, on his couch. That was the moment when Matt could no longer discount his fears as irrational. Pushed far enough, Foggy really would leave.

“We…” Matt cleared his throat. “We had a fight. About…about a different secret I was keeping. A while back. He left. Our friendship…broke. For a while. Foggy felt safe before that happened.”

“And he hasn’t felt safe since?” Dr. Dorner asked softly.

Yes and no. Matt tried to figure out how to explain it, tried to sift without flinching through feelings that felt like they bore thorns. “He…he’s safe unless I do something wrong.”

“And you think you did something wrong here?”

“Not…not with Sheridan,” Matt said haltingly. “But with Samuel.”

“What did you do wrong with Samuel?”

“I coached him.”

“Did you? I’m no lawyer, but I have to admit, I’m confused what was legally wrong with helping a little kid process his trauma.”

Matt frowned.

“What is coaching, exactly?”

“It could be a couple things. Here, it would be…giving Samuel words to say. Telling him how to answer a question. So it’s not really his testimony anymore, but mine.”

“Okay. Is that what you think you did?”

“Yeah, and—”

“Are you sure?” Her voice was firm. Not angry, but definitely trying to get him to focus.

Matt’s frown deepened. He forced himself to go back through the timeline, untangle each moment and take them all one by one. Realization dawned. “When we were talking, it wasn’t about a deposition or Samuel’s testimony. His mother hadn’t even hired us yet.” He sat up straighter, weight sliding off his shoulders. “I don’t—I don’t think I coached him!”

There was a grin in Dr. Dorner’s voice. “You don’t?”

“I didn’t coach him!” The relief was a palpable thing, a lightness in his chest. He sat back on the couch, blinking. “I didn’t.” Now he felt stupid for not seeing it before. Just, he’d been so worried about Foggy, panicked about the whole thing, overwhelmed by everything colliding so suddenly that he hadn’t had time to _think_.

(Well. It would probably be more accurate to say he’d done everything in his power to not think.)

The grin in her voice was broader now. “Good. That’s great.”

Matt tried to use the relief for momentum. “Okay, so I can tell F—” He stopped, stomach twisting.

“Matt?” Dr. Dorner asked concernedly.

“I can—” Matt clenched his jaw. He could tell Foggy. He _could_. There was no reason not to. So why did it still feel exactly as impossible as before? What was _wrong_ with him?

“Matt.” Dr. Dorner’s voice was calm. In control. “Can you tell me what you’re feeling right now?”

He squeezed his eyes shut. “I can’t tell him.”

“Why not?”

He lowered his head. He wanted to sink through the couch, but he forced himself to answer. “I don’t know, there’s _no reason_.”

“There’s always a reason,” she said softly. “They can just be hard to find, sometimes.”

This one wasn’t hard to find. Wasn’t hard to name. The only hard part was admitting it aloud. “I’m…I’m still scared.”

“That makes sense.”

“We _just_ agreed that I didn’t do anything wrong. Foggy shouldn’t get mad or—or leave.”

“That doesn’t mean it doesn’t still feel that way.”

“Yeah, well, feeling this way doesn’t exactly _help_ ,” he bit out.

“Really?” she asked mildly. “I think it’s very helpful.”

That threw him. “What?”

“Listen, Matt…” She leaned towards him. “Being afraid of sharing something this sensitive with Foggy is something that can protect you. I want you to be able to talk to Foggy, but not in a way that’ll be more traumatizing. Fear is important if it motivates you to set boundaries to keep the conversation from being harmful.”

“What kind of boundaries?” Matt asked doubtfully.

“You get to set the limits on what you talk about, and where, and how, and for how long. Think about it ahead of time, and you can even tell Foggy what the boundaries are. That way you’re both working together to keep the conversation in a healthy place.”

On the one hand, it didn’t feel right that he should have to have _boundaries_ just to talk to Foggy.

At the same time…he wasn’t sure he could do this without them.

But he remembered going to Father Lantom, determined to tell the priest the truth, only to get completely derailed. “What if I try to tell him, and I can’t?”

Her voice softened even more. “Matt, you’re a smart man, and incredibly perceptive. I think…when the time is right, you’ll know.”

That struck Matt as incredibly vague, and yet it was somehow…empowering, that she thought he could trust himself like that. “Simple as that?” he asked.

“You want to tell him,” she reminded him. “There are complications here, I’m not denying that. But at the end of the day, what you want is very simple, and I really do believe you’re capable of achieving it.”

Letting out a slow breath, he nodded.

“That being said…” She scooted to the edge of her seat. “You should be aware that this won’t be easy. And I don’t just mean as you’re talking to him, although that _will_ be hard. But even after you’ve told him, you might…need time to recover. You might want to pull away from not just Foggy, but other people, too. That’s okay; that doesn’t necessarily mean you were retraumatized—that’s actually _normal_. But here’s what I want you to do, all right?”

He nodded again.

“I want you to take the day, maybe two, and try to relax. If you want to practice what you’ll tell Foggy, that’s okay, but I don’t want you to do that very long. Give yourself a break. When the time is right, you’ll tell Foggy what happened, and then I want you to call me right away, okay? And we’ll talk through it together. Can you do that?”

“I’ll…try.” This time, he really thought he meant it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Galatians 6:2 ~ "Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ."


	28. Zephaniah 3:17

It was the weekend, making it easy to do as she said and take time to…prepare, or whatever. Relax, she said. He tried, he really did: as soon as he got home, he nudged his coffee table aside and sat cross-legged on the floor.

Meditation was difficult, though. He kept losing focus. His eyes hurt. His ribs hurt. Everything hurt. (He tried not to think about what Stick would say to that.) Maybe he should just go to the gym? (Which would hurt, but maybe be worth it.) He briefly considered praying. For peace or something. But the mere thought brought with it Sheridan’s thin voice, hissing in his ears about just what God thought of him.

Matt shook his head violently. Part of him wanted to just retreat into his bedroom and disappear into sleep, but that felt like giving up. Instead, he forced himself to walk into the kitchen for his ice pack, then to the couch with his phone and earbuds. He could…listen to music until sitting still drove him crazy?

(He should’ve asked Dr. Dorner about how to do this _relaxing_ thing.)

He’d barely sat down, however, when he heard it: tiny paws on the roof. He tilted his head, listening more intently. Yes, it was the cat. Still small, although her footsteps were a tiny bit heavier, like she’d grown a little over the last few days. Even though every small movement felt like a battle, Matt was already getting up. He was halfway up the stairs before she even _meowed_ demandingly to be let in.

She trotted inside the instant he opened the door, carrying with her the cold clinging to her fur.

“Hey,” Matt said, restlessness seeping away with her presence.

She _meowed_ again, in greeting this time, and strange how he could tell the difference between her meows. She bounded down the stairs and took to exploring his apartment again, like she’d forgotten since she’d been here last, or maybe it was more likely that she just had to reclaim it with her scent.

Matt didn’t mind. He followed her much more slowly down the stairs and resumed his position on the couch with his ice pack, listening as she completed her circuit of the main part of the apartment. She made quick work of the bedroom, even jumping up onto the bed for a minute, but she didn’t stay. She padded back out to the living room, this time heading straight for the couch.

Matt cracked a smile. “Been a while.”

Hopping up next to him, she gave the ice pack a dutiful sniff. It seemed to displease her, because she picked her way carefully across his lap to settle on his other side, pressed against the outside of his thigh, a purr rising from her chest.

“Yeah,” Matt whispered. “I’ve missed you too.”

Her paws kneaded the couch, claws catching on the leather.

Matt nudged her. “Knock that off.”

She didn’t.

“Okay, but you asked for this.” Picking her up, he settled her on his lap. Her claws poked at his jeans, but it was a fair exchange for her warmth. He stroked between her ears. “Can I ask you something?”

She made a curious noise.

“Who do you think I should tell first? Foggy or Karen?”

She tilted her head.

“Karen would probably be easier,” Matt admitted. “I don’t know why.” Maybe because he hadn’t known her as long; if this changed how she thought of him, it would only change a few years’ worth of opinions, rather than a decade and then some. Or maybe it was because she wasn’t a man. Men didn’t talk about things like this. Not with each other. Matt shook his head. “Am I a coward for wanting to tell Karen first just because it seems easier?”

The cat didn’t appear to have an opinion on that.

Matt sighed. “Or maybe I’m just pacing myself.” That was what Dr. Dorner would probably say.

And if pacing himself was not the same thing as cowardice, he could think of an even safer place to start than Karen.

~

_Matthew, are you all right?_

It was Sister Maggie, pulling him aside after class one day, her hand unusually gentle on his shoulder. His grades were dropping, she’d explained. He’d stopped contributing as much in class. And was he eating? He looked thin.

 _I’m fine, Sister, sorry._ The words rolled off his tongue without any conscious effort from him. The dismissal, the apology.

Everything about her told him she didn’t believe him. But she didn’t push. She let him go.

~

_Matthew, are you all right?_

It was Father Lantom, stopping him after mass one day.

Matt had half-turned to face him. _Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?_

 _I’ve just noticed some things,_ Father Lantom said.

 _Like what?_ Matt asked, skin prickling defensively.

_Well, you used to always find me after mass, not the other way around. You always had questions._

There was nothing to say to that. Matt had simply shrugged.

_Are you sure everything’s okay?_

Matt made sure to lift his chin, to appear as convincing as he knew how. _Yes._

Father Lantom’s small, disappointed sigh made it clear that he didn’t believe it. But for whatever reason, he didn’t ask any more questions. Matt hurried out into the yard and, though he still didn’t seek Father Lantom out, the priest never asked if everything was okay again.

~

Learning the name for what happened to him helped, but it didn’t solve everything. Each summer, each anniversary of those two weeks, Matt felt himself become a little…less. A little less of who he was supposed to be, a little less of the version of himself that he knew.

Foggy noticed. Of course he noticed. Although Foggy disappeared for a month on break with his family, he and Matt still lived together for the rest of the summer between their first and second years of law school, making the most of internships that didn’t pay anything. When Matt started fading in July, Foggy cornered him in their tiny dorm room.

_You okay, man?_

_What? Why wouldn’t I be?_

_You’re acting weird._

Matt shrugged.

 _I dunno,_ Foggy said. _Just, like…are you having a good time?_

Matt had raised his eyebrows. _A good time?_

_You know…with life._

_Yeah, Foggy. I’m good._

Foggy hadn’t bought it. That would’ve been obvious even to someone without heightened senses. But aside from rubbing his hands together nervously and watching Matt more intently, he hadn’t done anything else. Matt endured feeling like he was under a microscope until the two weeks were over, until he slowly went back to normal, and Foggy slowly relaxed, and it was like nothing ever happened.

Until the next year. Although the next year, the intensity was less. And the year after that, it was even less…until, eventually, it was like it never happened at all.

~

Clinton Church was still decorated for Christmas. Matt wrinkled his nose at the harsh smell of pine mingled with the lighter smell of holly berries. He could hear from the sidewalk that Father Lantom was already talking to someone, but Matt stepped inside anyway to wait. This was a conversation worth waiting for.

It took almost half an hour for the other conversation to wrap up. Finally, the other parishioner thanked Father Lantom profusely for his guidance and left with her chin higher and her step lighter. Father Lantom noticed Matt straight away. Probably because Matt was standing awkwardly in the middle of the foyer, not talking to anyone.

The priest came over, hands in his pockets, rubbing his fingers together like he was cold. “Hello, Matthew. Here for confession?”

The last thing Matt wanted was to have this conversation in the confession booth. “Can we—can we talk somewhere else instead?”

“Of course,” the priest said easily, like he hadn’t noticed Matt’s anxiety. Or maybe the truth was just that Matt was anxious more often than not, so why should today stand out? “Lattes in the kitchen?” Father Lantom suggested. “I daresay I could stand to warm up over a hot drink.”

Relief swept over him. Not enough to banish all the lingering fear, but…it helped.

Someone must have used the ovens recently because the kitchen was warmer than the rest of the church. Matt sat at the table, listening as Father Lantom tinkered with the espresso machine. Eventually, he returned to the table with two mugs, one of which he set in front of Matt. He held the other between both of his hands.

“What’s on your mind, Matthew?”

Matt clutched his own drink, trying his hardest to focus on the heat seeping through the mug, to not hyperfixate on Father Lantom’s every slight reaction. “There’s…there’s something I have to tell you.”

Despite himself, Matt caught the new tension in Father Lantom’s body as the priest picked up on the anxiety in Matt’s voice. Father Lantom’s own voice was calm as he said, “I’m listening.”

“Do you…do you still send kids to Camp Saint Nicholas?”

Father Lantom leaned back a little on the seat, apparently resigned to the fact that it would take a while to get to whatever Matt really wanted to talk about. “That was a long time ago. I don’t think the camp is even running anymore.”

“Do you know if, um…if Father Sheridan is still around?”

“No, I’ve no idea. They moved him after the camp closed. I haven’t heard from him in years.”

“Right,” Matt said stiffly. So the old man could still be alive. Could still be hurting people. Or maybe he was just spending his years in some fancy nursing home, enjoying letters from parishioners who loved him.

“Why do you ask? Is he connected to…whatever you want to tell me?”

Matt cleared his throat. “This case at my firm, the one I told you about…”

“The child who was abused,” Father Lantom remembered. “By a priest.”

“Did you know Father Sheridan did that, too?”

Father Lantom held perfectly still. “He abused people?”

Matt nodded.

“Oh, hell,” the priest breathed. For almost a minute, he sat in stunned silence. Then he seemed to brace himself. “How…how do you know this?”

Matt gripped his mug tighter. “How do you think?”

Father Lantom covered his mouth with one hand. “I—” Matt had never known him to be at such a loss for words. “I—” He sounded strangled. “I’m so sorry.”

Matt shook his head. “Wasn’t your fault.”

Father Lantom’s breathing hitched, but the delay between that and when he actually spoke suggested he might’ve edited what he wanted to say. “I’m sorry I let that happen. And I’m sorry I didn’t know. I can’t believe I didn’t see…”

“It’s fine,” Matt said quietly.

“It’s not.” Father Lantom started lowering his head into his hands, only to stop himself. He seemed to make a conscious effort to face Matt head on. Weird, since it wasn’t like it made a difference either way. “I let you down,” the priest said clearly. “I should’ve seen. And I have no excuse.”

“I’m not trying to make you feel bad. I just wanted to tell you. Can I…can I tell you?”

Of course, he already had. He may not have directly said the words, but Father Lantom clearly reached the correct conclusion. But according to Dr. Dorner, sharing the conclusion was not always good enough.

Father Lantom’s voice was uncharacteristically shaky, but at least he’d stopped apologizing. “You can tell me anything. I’m…I’m listening.”

For a second, Matt hesitated. He’d burdened the old man enough over the years, not to mention the burdens placed on him by other people. People seeking forgiveness, people seeking peace. How did he manage it? How could he stand to hear so much brokenness and not break himself?

Wasn’t it selfish of Matt to want to add to that burden, just for his own sake?

But Father Lantom leaned forward, put his hand, still warm from holding his mug, firmly on Matt’s shoulder. “Matthew. You can tell me anything. I’m listening now.”

Matt swallowed hard. Slowly, haltingly, he told the story. He started with Stick, because somehow it didn’t feel like it would really make sense without that part. He talked about how Stick taught him to feed his anger. Control it, yeah, but also feed it. How Stick gave the devil an outlet and Matt couldn’t tell if all his training was sin and was too afraid of letting go of his secrets to ask Father Lantom.

“Sorry,” Matt whispered, like Father Lantom would be offended for his past self.

“No need to apologize,” Father Lantom said dumbly, sounding still distracted by sorting through everything Matt had said. “I’m the one who has to apologize. I should’ve seen what he was doing…”

“I kept it a secret on purpose.”

“And that absolves me of my responsibility to care for you?”

Matt shrugged uncomfortably.

He could practically hear the pieces falling into place for the priest. “So this is how…Daredevil…”

Matt kept his head down. “Yeah.”

“You were just a child, Matthew. You’re not to blame for how he—”

“I’m not here to talk about him.”

Father Lantom fell silent.

Matt brought up the camp. Explained what a relief it had been, at first, to confess to a stranger. Someone he didn’t have to worry about disappointing. He described the questions Sheridan asked, digging deeper and deeper under the skin, but doing it so expertly that Matt didn’t realize how exposed he’d become until it was too late, until Sheridan knew every single thing that made Matt afraid or ashamed.

He explained how the penance became abuse. In the confessional and in the priest’s private office. Matt clasped his hands tighter together and tried not to listen to the way the Father Lantom’s heart beat faster and faster. Tried not to smell the salt of the priest’s silent tears.

But he couldn’t help it. And so Matt stopped short of going into detail. Maybe Dr. Dorner would be disappointed, but Matt didn’t really care. He could journal about that, maybe, or maybe even talk to her about it later. But he did not want to put that on Father Lantom, and he didn’t think it was out of guilt or fear.

It was just…compassion. For an old man whose heart was breaking in front of him.

“So, um…” Matt forced a tiny shrug. “I just wanted to tell you.”

For several long seconds, Father Lantom didn’t say anything. He seemed to be concentrating on keeping his breathing even. Then: “Matthew, I’m so—”

“No,” Matt said again, quickly. “You don’t have to—”

“I should have _seen_.”

“It’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything.”

“Yes,” the priest agreed bitterly, “and one day I will have to give an account to God about exactly why I did nothing.”

Matt’s stomach dropped. “I—I didn’t—” He hadn’t come here to make Father Lantom feel guilty; somehow, it hadn’t even occurred to him that the priest would react like this. And now he’d, what, live the rest of his life dreading the moment when he encountered God? “I don’t blame you,” Matt said desperately, like that would help.

Father Lantom gave a sharp shake of his head. “My guilt is not your responsibility.”

Matt had no idea what to say to that.

“I’m sorry,” Father Lantom said again, even though Matt wasn’t even sure what he was trying to apologize for anymore. “Is there anything else you need to tell me?”

“No. Well, uh…” Matt adjusted his grip on his mug. “I just…I wanted to ask you…” He swallowed. “Knowing what I just told you…what do you think God thinks when He thinks of me?”

“He loves you,” Father Lantom answered without hesitation, subtly wiping the tears off his face.

“No, I know, He has to, but—”

“Has to?” Father Lantom interrupted.

“Yeah. He sent Christ to save us, so now He has to love us, or else He wouldn’t be just. That’s what you said. From the book of First John. Remember?”

“Oh.” Father Lantom sat back in his seat with a long exhale, as if buying time to refocus his thoughts. “That’s not what I meant. And I don’t really believe that’s what I said. The verse you’re referencing is talking about forgiveness. Not love.”

Matt forced a half-smile. “Semantics. Are you sure you’re not the lawyer?”

“It’s not semantics at all.” There was a surprising layer of vehemence in Father Lantom’s tone that Matt wasn’t at all sure what to do with. “It’s true that, once Christ’s death and resurrection are applied to us, God would be unjust if He didn’t forgive us. So it’s true that our forgiveness follows salvation. But love, Matthew…”

Matt raised his eyebrows.

“For God so loved the world _that_ He sent His son. He sent Christ to save us _because_ He loves us—even before we were forgiven, even while we were lost in sin, even while we were His _enemies_.”

“All right, but…” Matt shifted in his seat. “Love is complicated.”

“What do you mean?”

Matt tried to think of how to explain it without…well, without sharing too much of himself. “Sometimes love is…difficult. I mean, sometimes you…I don’t know, I don’t have kids, but I imagine that some days a parent wakes up and just…loves their kids effortlessly. You know? _Can’t help_ but love them. And then, some days, if the kid is particularly disobedient, for example, maybe the parent has to take a few deep breaths and _remind_ themselves that they love their kid. Love is a choice. And it might take a bit of thinking to convince yourself that, um…”

“That what?” Father Lantom asked gently.

Matt felt very small. “That the kid is worth it?” he managed, voice cracking a little at the end.

“And you imagine God’s love is like that?”

Matt shrugged helplessly.

Father Lantom let out a quiet breath. “So, when you ask me what I think God thinks when He thinks of you…”

Matt blinked hard, throat tightening. “I just…I just wonder sometimes how…how hard it is for Him to remind Himself to overlook all my—everything I’ve—” He cut himself off, and flinched at the sudden touch of Father Lantom’s hand grabbing his.

“It isn’t,” the priest said earnestly. “Matthew, loving you is no hardship.”

The words rang true, and yet Matt could not accept them. “How do I know you’re not just _saying_ that?”

Silence. But Father Lantom didn’t stop holding his hand.

Eventually, the priest spoke up: “Can I ask you something?”

Matt jerked his head in a nod.

“Why are you so convinced that it’s so hard for God to love you?”

“I sin, Father. We’ve all fallen short.”

Father Lantom paused. “You came to me before, asking how to tell if something is a sin. Is…is _this_ what you were talking about?”

Matt’s mouth went dry. He nodded hesitantly.

The priest took a deep breath. “Oh, Matthew. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t tell you.”

“I should have—” He cut himself off, clearly deciding that whatever he wanted to say would not be helpful. “Regardless. Let me be as clear as I can: you aren’t responsible for what he did to you. You didn’t sin.”

“But—”

“You were the victim of _his_ sin.”

Matt shook his head. “No, I know, that’s what you said last time, but…I still sin in other ways, so…”

“And yet Scripture says that _while we were still sinners_ , God loved us. I know you know that verse, you memorized it when you were ten years old. But you don’t seem to believe it. Why?”

“General Catholic guilt isn’t enough?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Father Lantom said simply.

Pulling free of the priest’s grasp, he fidgeted, rubbing his thumb against his index finger. He kept waiting for Father Lantom to move on, but the priest just waited. Matt considered getting up and walking away.

But then, if there was even the _slightest_ chance that Father Lantom could tell him— _convince_ him—that Father Sheridan had lied….

Matt kept his eyes aimed downwards. “You, uh…you remember what I told you about my grandmother? How she said my dad and I have the devil in us?”

“Yes,” Father Lantom said neutrally.

“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?

“To what extent?” Father Lantom countered.

“What?”

“We’re all born with original sin. We all have a fallen nature. You’re not…” Father Lantom paused, as if debating saying whatever he wanted to say. Finally, he came out with it: “Frankly, you’re not that special.”

Matt laughed uneasily.

“I’m serious, Matthew. Yes, you have some kind of devil in you, even if it’s only your fallen nature. And, yes, you are, compared to most of us…particularly equipped, let’s say…to act on its impulses.” He shifted his weight in his chair. “I, for instance, might hate someone deeply, but it would take a bit more work on my part to physically hurt them. The underlying sin, though, is the same for both you and me.”

Matt shook his head.

“You disagree?”

“It’s just, uh…” Matt hunched forward, twining his fingers together, keeping his eyes aimed downwards. “Father Sheridan said my grandmother was right. About the devil in me. And he didn’t say anything about that being true for other people, too. He said…” Even now, the words didn’t want to come out. Because what if he said it aloud, and Father Lantom _agreed?_

What if Father Lantom tried to explain it away, but his heart skipped?

Or what if he just sat there in silence, unwilling to confirm it but not wanting to lie by denying it?

Father Lantom’s voice was already frigid when he asked, “What did he say?”

Matt lowered his head and pulled his hand away. “God must flinch when He sees me.”

Father Lantom’s breathing changed, becoming deep and perfectly measured. He was angry, Matt realized. No, he was furious. And trying not to show it, trying not to lose control.

Matt was mostly sure the anger wasn’t directed at him, but he still didn’t understand it. Had he ever witnessed Father Lantom’s anger before? Not that he remembered, and definitely not like this. “Sorry,” he said weakly.

“What the hell are _you_ apologizing for?”

“…You’re angry,” Matt explained.

“Not at you!”

Matt kept his eyes down. “Still.” Father Lantom shouldn’t have to be angry about something that happened years ago, and now he was. Because Matt insisted on talking about it.

“Listen to me very carefully. You have nothing to be sorry for. But _I_ would have something to be sorry for if I _weren’t_ angry.”

Matt tilted his head. “How?”

Father Lantom’s voice was colder than Matt had ever heard it. “Because what that man did to you, and what he said to you, was evil. And we as children of God should be ashamed of ourselves if we do not feel anger over evil.”

For a second, Matt just processed that. Anger was so ingrained in him; always had been. Wasn’t that the devil inside? “The world is full of evil. How are you not angry all the time?”

“Because…unlike you, I don’t always hear it.”

“But why shouldn’t it be true?” Matt insisted. “Even if I’m angry over evil, I still…I go too far, I lose control. And I…” He curled his hands into fists, digging his nails into his palms. He’d never admitted this. “I _enjoy_ it. Hurting people.”

“‘When the wicked perish,’” Father Lantom quoted slowly, “‘there are shouts of gladness.’ Matthew, it’s not wrong to rejoice when justice is served.”

“But—”

“I don’t know where the line is, for you,” Father Lantom interrupted flatly, “between enjoying divine justice, regardless of whether you play a part in delivering it, and enjoying the pain you inflict for another reason. But something tells me that even if we resolved that question, you’d find another reason to believe God recoils at the thought of you. Am I wrong?”

Well. Matt mutely shook his head.

“So let’s address that, then. The imposter priest told you that God flinches when He thinks of you. Can I show you why you’re wrong?”

He could try. Matt wasn’t optimistic. But he nodded.

“Thank you.” Father Lantom folded his hands together. “Now, I’m not an idiot, Matthew. I know I could tell you a thousand Bible stories, most of which you’ve already heard, or show you a thousand verses, most of which you already know, but that wouldn’t change a thing when it comes to what you feel, deep down. I don’t expect to change your mind with one conversation. What I want to do, then, is give you one verse.”

Matt raised his eyebrows.

“Just one,” Father Lantom repeated. “And whenever you’re tempted to think that God regards you with the _slightest_ hesitation, I want you to remember this verse, and think about it, and choose to _keep_ thinking about it until, eventually, the truth works its way down to your heart. Can you do that?”

Matt rubbed awkwardly at the back of his neck. “My, uh, my therapist said I’m not supposed to use Scripture to distract myself from things.”

“But this isn’t a distraction. In fact, you _can’t_ do what I’m asking you to do if you refuse to confront your doubts, because I’m asking you to pull those doubts to the forefront of your mind so you can challenge them. Can you do that?”

“Apparently, I’m not good at that. But…yeah, I can try.”

The room around them was almost silent, and Father Lantom’s voice was soft as he began, “‘The Lord your God is in your midst, a mighty one who will save.’”

Matt closed his eyes, listening.

“‘He will rejoice over you with gladness; He will quiet you by his love…’”

The words weren’t reaching his heart. They just weren’t.

“‘And He will exult over you with loud singing.’” Father Lantom edged closer. “You see?”

Matt opened his eyes. “I don’t know. It’s…there are lots of verses like that, I know, but…they don’t apply to me. They can’t. God is holy, I’m not. Maybe someday, maybe in heaven when I don’t sin anymore, but…” He trailed off.

Father Lantom wasted no time. “This verse is from the Old Testament. The rest of the chapter depicts God speaking to Jerusalem, a city that had forsaken Him. The city’s judges are described as wolves, her prophets are treacherous, and her priests profane what is holy. The city oppresses the vulnerable while refusing to draw near to God or heed His correction. And yet the chapter says that God takes away the judgment against it. _That_ is why a holy God can be in the midst of a sinful city.”

Matt was not used to the Old Testament painting a picture of mercy. He’d certainly never heard this story before.

“But it goes even deeper than that,” Father Lantom went on, a new fervency to his voice. “You want to know how God reacted to this broken and sinful city? You want to know, by comparison, how He reacts to us, even in our brokenness? God _exults_ over you. _You_ , Matthew. But once again, the English language fails to do justice to the enormity of what is being said here. We don’t…” Father Lantom gave a small, slightly stunned laugh. “We don’t even have a _word_ in English to capture what this verse is saying.”

Matt tilted his head.

Father Lantom kept going, gaining speed, like if he just said it fast enough, he could sneak the words past Matt’s defenses. “The Hebrew word for _exult_ comes from a primitive root word. It’s a vivid picture: it means to spin around, as if under the influence of some fierce and visceral emotion. English only has a word for that in the negative sense. We have several words, actually: to cringe, recoil…”

“Flinch,” Matt whispered.

“Yes, yes, exactly.” Father Lantom moved even closer; he took Matt’s hand again as his words tumbled out: “In a negative sense, the word means to flinch away in disgust or fear. It’s not a calculated decision—it’s immediate and automatic. Instinctive, even. But just imagine the inverse. Imagine…I don’t know, a father hurrying to his son, or a child running to pick up a puppy. Imagine God loving you _so much_ that, even though He is not blind to your faults, He _can’t help_ but move towards you.”

But that didn’t make sense, that God could feel that way about him. Did it? Matt wanted it to be true, desperately, and maybe deep down it even _felt_ true in a way he couldn’t explain.

But no. When had anyone ever had that attitude towards him? What about Stick, walking away because Matt wasn’t good enough? Or Elektra, walking away because Matt wouldn’t kill on command? Or Claire and Foggy and Karen, all leaving in turn when they found out who he really was? And _Maggie_ ….

Father Sheridan’s theory just seemed so much more…realistic.

“Matthew?” Father Lantom’s voice was laden with concern. “Tell me what you’re thinking. I’m listening.”

Biting the inside of his cheek, Matt shook his head. You didn’t argue with Scripture. You definitely didn’t argue with Scripture when your best reasoning amounted to nothing more than: _I don’t understand it._

Father Lantom sighed quietly. Not as though he wanted Matt to hear it or anything; he just suddenly seemed tired, so tired. And no wonder. “Well,” he said at last, “I want you to think on it, all right? Even if you don’t believe it yet. Keep going back to it. Can you do that?”

“I can try.” At least it was something to hold onto for what he had to do next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zephaniah 3:17 ~ "The LORD your God is in your midst, a mighty one who will save; he will rejoice over you with gladness; he will quiet you by his love; he will exult over you with loud singing."
> 
> A totally skippable writing process note here:
> 
> I did a lot of thinking on whom Matt should tell first, between Foggy, Karen, and Father Lantom, and it was like one complicated three-way balancing test. I’ve always imagined that Foggy would be the hardest for Matt to tell: partly because of social norms applied in male/male friendships, partly because I think Matt could easily fear getting a reaction like when Foggy yelled at him in the bathroom during the Frank Castle case or when Foggy left him alone after learning about Daredevil, and partly because Foggy has known Matt the longest in a non-counselor-type way—meaning, I think, that Matt would more easily fear a severe shift in their friendship dynamic. Meanwhile, I think telling Father Lantom is the easiest because, even though Lantom is a priest and that comes with serious baggage in this story, Matt also trusts Lantom and even tried to tell him once before.
> 
> So given those premises of "hardest" and "easiest," here are the things I was trying to track when deciding whom Matt should tell. First there’s the storytelling angle that says, “Start with the easiest and work up to the hardest, because anything else feels anticlimactic.” Then there are the character angles: the fact that I’m dealing with Matt Murdock means he’s liable to start with the hardest To Prove That He Can (and possibly send himself backwards, thereby making this fic like ten chapters longer and probably driving you all crazy). But there’s also the fact that I want part of Matt’s growth as a character to include the ability to be gentle with himself…which would mean Not starting with the hardest if he doesn’t have to. Then there’s the faith angle: he was friendless when he lost his faith, so having him take a significant step towards rebuilding it when he doesn’t yet have the support of friends felt like a better bookend to that.
> 
> Anyway, I’m sharing all this because I’ve been, y’know, obsessing over it, and it’s nice to no longer have to obsess over it solely in the solitude of my own brain. I’m also sharing this because I know some of you, at least, have made your own hypotheses as to whom he’ll tell first, and well, I just hope to communicate that, even if I wrote it in a different order than you would’ve liked…at least I did it with intentionality!
> 
> One more thing: this Father Lantom scene was tricky, not only because I was trying to describe a concept that we don’t have a word for in English (English really does suck, and I refuse to pretend otherwise), but because I don’t think we can respect Lantom unless we really see him own the fact that this happened while Matt was under his care. But at the same time, I just cannot write Matt accepting apologies easily. Which means Lantom has to try to apologize without making it all about himself and thereby putting Matt in the position of having to offer reassurances or forgiveness. But we’re not in Lantom’s head, so I have to try to…signal that via Matt’s internal narration, but he isn’t exactly the most emotionally aware character in the world. So, yeah. Ultimately, in real life, their whole conversation would need to be revisited again and again, I think. But that would make this story like fifty chapters long, so I tried to consolidate. I don’t know, did it…work? Ish?


	29. Psalm 8:4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I don't normally cry when writing stuff, no matter how sad or angsty it gets, but everything Maggie-related in this fic is kinda changing that.

Matt cleared his throat. “Thank you, Father. For saying all of that.”

“And I’ll keep saying it,” the priest responded immediately. “As often as you need to hear it. Because they’re not my words. They’re God’s.”

Matt managed a small smile, feeling some of the tension he’d been carrying since…he didn’t know when, really…begin to unwind.

His smiled vanished at Father Lantom’s next words. “Does Maggie know?”

Matt instantly felt cornered, somehow. “Uh. No. She doesn’t.”

“Right.” Father Lantom shifted his weight like a man mentally preparing to wade back into an ocean. “And how are you…doing with that?”

“It’s fine,” Matt said weakly.

“Is it?”

“Look, Father, we—it’s—” Matt searched for words, gave up. “I’m trying not to think about it.”

“I see,” Father Lantom said, and then didn’t say anything else.

Matt’s insides shriveled. The priest might as well have condemned him out loud. “I—I know that’s wrong, I just—”

“What’s wrong?”

“I have to forgive her, don’t I? I can’t keep…holding onto…” He wasn’t even sure what word there was to describe what, exactly, he was holding onto. He just knew he shouldn’t be.

Father Lantom was quiet for a moment. Thinking. Then: “What would forgiving her mean to you?”

How should Matt know? He wasn’t the theologian. Still, an answer came to mind. “I need to…I need to get to the point where, when I’m with her, I don’t…feel…” Despite himself, he bit his lip. “Hurt.”

“Oh.” Father Lantom sighed deeply. Not like Matt had done something terrible, but like the priest thought they had a lot of work ahead of them. “I take it that’s what you think God expects of you, then?”

“Is it not?”

“Not as I understand forgiveness, no.”

Matt _wanted_ to feel relief at that, but he couldn’t. Not until he knew what the actual expectation was.

“Feeling hurt, Matthew, is not sin. It’s just a reality. Part of living in a broken world, populated with broken people. I hope, one day, you can be around her without feeling hurt. But there is absolutely nothing wrong with you if you can’t.”

“But what do I have to do, then? To forgive her?”

Father Lantom coughed lightly. “Would it shock you to hear me say, yet again, that English might be the most unhelpful language on the planet?”

Matt half-smiled. “Not at this point, no.”

“In English, the idea of forgiveness is the removal of guilt. Absolution. Pardon. That, or, in a more modern sense, the release of negative emotions associated with the person’s harm. Hebrew, however, has at least six different words all translated to mean _forgiveness_ , all of which with slightly different meanings.”

Matt’s eyebrows rose. “So what am I supposed to do?”

“First let me tell you what you’re _not_ responsible for. You’re not responsible for removing her guilt. Nor are you responsible for shielding her from the consequences of her actions.” Father Lantom paused. “Including the consequences that currently affect your relationship.”

“But…”

“If it hurts to be around her, you don’t have to be around her.”

He made it sound so _simple_. “Isn’t that holding it over her head?” Matt asked. (Why was he arguing about this? Did he _want_ to hear that he needed to do more for her?)

“No,” Father Lantom answered calmly. “All you’re doing is protecting yourself.”

That didn’t really feel like something he should be doing either, honestly. Maybe he really did want to be told to do more. Maybe he was afraid he wouldn’t bother if he didn’t feel like God was disappointed in him otherwise. Maybe he thought this would somehow guarantee that he and Maggie were able to actually have a relationship.

Because without something pushing him, he honestly didn’t know if they even had a shot.

“Matthew?” Father Lantom’s voice was impossibly tender.

“I just…I don’t know…” Putting his elbows on the table, Matt dropped his head into his hands. “Can you just tell me what I’m supposed to do?”

The priest’s voice was tinged with a new kind of sadness. “Actually, I don’t know if I can.”

Matt lifted his head. “Then what’s the _point_ of—”

“I can tell you in theory,” Father Lantom clarified. “The kind of forgiveness expected of all God’s children is the ability to show compassion, even towards those who’ve wronged us. The ability to genuinely want the best even for our enemies. Such kindheartedness isn’t something we can muster up on our own—it’s a gift from God, the inevitable product of our own state of forgiveness. As Christ said, he who has been forgiven much loves much.”

Matt nodded, latching onto the direction. Okay. That made sense, that was at least something to…strive towards.

“But,” Father Lantom said, with a firmness in his tone that immediately weakened Matt’s resolution, “you have to do it _without_ hurting yourself in the process.”

“Why does that _matter?_ ” Matt burst out, frustrated.

“Because _you_ matter.”

Matt squared his jaw. There it was: the underlying premise of Father Lantom’s beliefs that he just could not bring himself to accept.

“Now,” the priest went on, “what it looks like to be compassionate towards Maggie without hurting yourself, I don’t exactly know. But there’s no rush to figure it out.”

“But I need to—”

“You need to _heal_ , Matthew.”

Matt pressed his lips together, the better to seal off the sudden emotion rising in his chest.

“Put her in God’s hands. Take care of yourself. You don’t have to worry about anything else.”

Was that really all that was required of him? Matt hid his hands under the table, curling his fingers into fists, letting his nails bite into skin.

“I take it you don’t believe me,” Father Lantom murmured.

Matt raised his eyebrows, chagrinned. Was he that obvious?

“And I realize I can’t exactly ask you to trust me.”

“What, no,” Matt said, chest tightening at the guilt in the priest’s voice. “I trust you, Father, I just…” He trailed off. He was supposed to be so great with words; why couldn’t he explain _this?_ He took the coward’s way out, changing the subject. “Father, I…I need to tell Foggy what happened.”

“Why?” the priest asked, gentle and unassuming and going along with this change of topic without pushing back.

Matt didn’t want to detail what happened at the deposition yet again. “I want to.”

For better or worse, Father Lantom accepted this. “He’s your friend. Having his support will no doubt mean a lot.”

“Assuming I get his support.”

“You think you wouldn’t?”

“I can’t know until I tell him, can I?”

“We don’t _know_ most things in life, when you really think about it. You didn’t know your chair would hold you up until you put your weight on it. It didn’t stop you from sitting.”

“Foggy is somewhat more complicated than a chair, Father.”

This was met with a stuttered exhale, almost a chuckle. “But maybe not as complicated as you’re thinking.”

Matt pressed his lips together. He’d told Father Lantom, eventually, about his various fights with Foggy. But Matt wasn’t sure he’d ever managed to communicate just how devastating it all was.

The priest sighed. “I don’t really know your friend, so I suppose there’s not much I can do to calm your fears about how he’ll react.”

At least he was honest.

“But can I offer you something else, that may or may not help in the short term but which will, I think, help you tremendously in the long term?”

“What?” Matt asked, a bit suspicious.

“We need support from people in our life, I’m not denying that. We were created for relationship with one another. But there’s still a strength to be found that rises above the need for others to approve of us when we know that our Creator approves of us. What I want for you, Matthew, is the ability to face your friend without any need to hide the truth by standing firm in the knowledge of God’s love for you.”

But that was the problem, wasn’t it? Father Lantom could talk about God’s love all he wanted, but it wasn’t _real_. Matt wanted to think he’d caught a glimpse of it from this conversation, here in the church’s kitchen, but overall? Overall, God’s love was nothing more than a distant, abstract concept compared to Matt’s lived experience confirming over and over that he was, at best, unworthy of notice. Or a burden. Or, at worst, prey. A target, for reasons he still didn’t understand.

Matt cleared his throat. “I’m…not sure I really _know_ that, Father.”

“Maybe not,” Father Lantom agreed gently. “But by God’s grace, you’ll get there.”

~

The cat was waiting for him back in his apartment, and she wasted no time before drawing close, winding between his legs, trilling with obvious delight at his presence. Matt picked her up before he could trip and continued holding her as he paced back and forth, pressing his face into her warmth. She wriggled to be better-situated in his arms and started purring. It kind of helped him think.

Facts were facts: Foggy and Karen were his best friends. If there was anyone he not only needed but _wanted_ to know the truth, know his story, it was them.

Maybe he was ready. He wanted to be ready. But he didn’t want to make things worse if he wasn’t. Then again, what was he so afraid of? That they’d reject him? They’d stuck with him through every other shitty thing in his life. There was no _reason_ to believe they’d turn their backs now, no matter what he felt.

What, then? That they’d feel sorry for him? Well…maybe they would. But that wasn’t…well. It wouldn’t be comfortable. But they weren’t _wrong_ to feel sorry for him. Not if everything Dr. Dorner said was true, everything that Matt himself would be saying if only he were talking about someone else.

And Foggy needed to know. He was going to talk to Samuel as soon as the weekend was over, if not sooner. This was Matt’s only chance to choose to tell him first. He’d already lost that chance with Daredevil; he didn’t want to lose it with this.

His phone was on the table. He shifted the cat’s weight, to her soft _mew_ of protest, picked it up, squeezed it in his hand.

(Maybe they’d react like Father Lantom. Maybe they’d listen, and reassure him, and try to convince him he was loved.)

No—it wasn’t that simple. Wasn’t that _easy_.

His hand dropped the phone back on the table.

Matt gritted his teeth. Since when did he shy away from something because it was _hard?_

Snatching it up again, he swiped through his contacts.

 _“Call Karen?”_ the phone asked.

He couldn’t tell Foggy. Not yet. He just—he couldn’t.

Karen, though. She wasn’t angry with him, even though she had every right to be. She just wanted to know the truth. He could give her that.

He was ready. He hoped. He had to be.

Or did he? If—if he wasn’t, he just had to tell her that. Maybe she’d be patient. Maybe she’d wait for him. If it took two or three or ten false starts…maybe she’d still be there waiting.

She’d given every indication she would.

Matt’s stomach dropped like he was stepping off a ledge as he said, “Call Karen.”

The cat purred again, as if in approval, and rubbed her cheek along his jaw.

The phone rang twice, and his stomach flipped again with each ring, before she picked up, voice wary. “Matt?”

“Hey. I, uh…you said, if I was ready to talk, you’d listen.”

A short pause. “That’s still our deal.”

“I’m…I’m ready.”

~

They agreed to meet at her place. Matt wasn’t sure what her motivation was; he just knew he wanted to be able to leave if he had to. Which was how he ended up shuffling his feet outside her apartment about ten minutes later.

Her footsteps approached from the other side of the front door, padded by thick socks. He fiddled with the strap of his cane.

The door opened. The awkwardness was immediate.

He made himself stop fidgeting. “Hey. Is, uh…is this still a good time?”

“Yeah, sorry, please—please come in.” She held the door open.

He stepped across the threshold, trying not to feel like he was walking into a trap. He was _choosing_ this, remember? He was choosing honesty. He was choosing _her_.

Her hand came up to rest on his arm. “You wanna sit?”

“Please.” Propping his cane against the wall, he let her lead the way to her couch. They sat side-by-side, angled towards each other with about a foot between them.

“You want anything to drink?”

He’d appreciate having something to do with his hands, but if he dragged this out too long, he might not be able to say it at all. “No. Thank you.”

She seemed to study him. “Am _I_ gonna want something to drink?”

He quirked his lips. “Maybe.”

In response, she got up and got a bottle of wine from the kitchen, bringing back two glasses. She filled both and set one in front of him. “Just in case.”

He picked it up automatically, swishing the liquid around, keeping it just shy of spilling. “So, uh, before I say this, I just wanted to make sure you know that I’m fine.”

Her hair brushed over her shoulder as she sat again, still leaving space between them. “…Honestly, Matt, I find that hard to believe. I mean, even harder than normal.”

He inclined his head in acknowledgement. “I _will_ be fine, then. I just…” He swished the wine a little faster. “If I’m gonna tell you this, I really need to know that you won’t, uh…”

“Worry?” she suggested.

“You’re already worried,” he pointed out. “And I know you’ll keep worrying. And…that’s not, maybe, the worst thing in the world.”

She made a low sound of surprise.

“But I need to know that you won’t treat me differently because of it. I’m not made of glass, all right? I’m still me.”

“Okay,” she said evenly.

“Okay,” he repeated. She seemed like she meant it. But even if she did, she couldn’t really know how she’d react until she knew what he had to say. This was never not going to be a leap of faith. Setting the glass down, he folded his hands between his knees. “So, uh, I’ve been…having a harder time recently. As I know you know. It’s just this case, it…brought a lot of things to the surface. Things I wasn’t really ready to deal with.”

Her heart beat faster. Had she figured it out already? Not just the fact that he was abused in general, but that it was a priest? He wouldn’t be surprised. Part of him hoped she’d interrupt, tell him she knew what he was talking about, tell him he didn’t have to say anything more. But then he would…what, leave? Or would she try to hug him? Ask him to stay? Would they both get so drunk they forgot the entire conversation?

Her breathing changed.

“Don’t interrupt,” he said before he could stop himself. He’d come all this way and he’d made this choice. This truth was an ugly gift to give her, but their intimacy seemed built on ugly truths.

She clutched her wine glass a little tighter and didn’t interrupt.

“When I was fourteen,” he began, concentrating on just putting one word after another, “I went to a summer camp. I took confession twice a day for two weeks from the same priest.” He focused his senses on the wine in the glass on the table, on all the minute waves rippling across its surface from his voice. “He was raping me.”

She had one hand over her mouth.

“I didn’t realize it until college. I just…didn’t really think about it until then. Never put a name to it or anything. And then after I did realize, I still didn’t think about it. Easier not to, you know?”

She nodded.

“Every once in a while, something would happen that would make me remember. But even then, I just…dismissed it. I mean, it could’ve been worse, you know?”

“I’m, um…not so sure about that, Matt.”

He didn’t want to debate it. Not when he knew she was right. “I got really good at dismissing it. Until this case happened, and I couldn’t anymore. But it’s been…I don’t know. Like I said, I wasn’t ready.”

He ran out of things to say, and she held her breath instead of firing off questions. Was she giving him space? Or was she too horrified to think of any questions to ask?

“Matt,” she said at last, voice small, “I’m so sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry.”

“But I am.”

“I don’t want your pity.”

“It’s not _pity_. What he did was—”

“I know what it was. I was there.”

She bit down on her lip hard enough to make it bleed. He smelled the copper in the air.

She gave up on talking, apparently, and just put her hand on his shoulder, and didn’t react when he flinched at the sudden contact. Didn’t pull away. She just rubbed a soothing pattern until his taught muscles slowly relaxed. Mostly.

He appreciated her silence. Other people might feel the need to talk, but a certain peace came with the stillness.

Although he still had to take a deep breath before saying this next part. “Look, I…I understand if you don’t want to be with me. I mean…ever.”

“Why would I not want to be with you? Don’t answer that,” she added an instant later. “It doesn’t matter, because hearing this doesn’t change anything. Not for me.”

He cocked his head. She might say that now, while she was feeling sorry for him, but that didn’t mean she’d still say that tomorrow.

But she caught his expression and scooted closer, and now her hip was pressed against his. “Matt, listen to me.” She put her hand on his shoulder. “I love _so many_ things about you. Your kindness, your courage, your _relentless_ pursuit of justice. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. And none— _none_ —of that is changed by what you told me.”

“You sure about that?” he asked weakly.

In answer, she took his hand and pressed it to her heart.

“Karen…”

“Do you trust me?”

Oh. If that was what it came down to, then… “Of course I do.” He frowned, pulled his hand out of her grasp and dragged it through his hair. “I’m _trying_.”

“Can I prove it to you?”

“That’s the thing.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t…I don’t really think there’s anything you can do. Other than what you’re already doing, I mean.”

She twisted the ends of a strand of hair around her fingers. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I’m still the problem. Telling you this, it…it doesn’t magically fix anything.”

“It helps me,” she said softly. “I hope it helps you.”

“No, it does, I’m just saying…” He swallowed. “Just because I was able to tell you this doesn’t mean I…doesn’t mean I’m ready for more. Right now. With you.”

Her tiny _oh_ almost broke his heart.

He didn’t know what to do. He wanted to grab her hand. He wanted to hold her close. He wanted to kiss her until he stopped thinking. But that wouldn’t be fair to either of them. “Look, I…I have a lot I need to sort through still. And it’s not fair to drag you into that—”

“You’re not dragging me anywhere.”

He grimaced. “Poor choice of words. That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what _do_ you mean?”

He sighed. “What I said. I’m not ready. I want to be, I’d _love_ to be, but…I’m not.”

Sitting back, she folded her hands together. “Okay. I understand.”

“It’s not that I don’t think you could help me, it’s just—”

“No, I get it. This is complicated. True love’s kiss doesn’t fix everything in real life.”

His heart skipped a beat. True love?

She blushed like she realized what she’d just said. “Anyway. Yeah. I get it. If you’re not ready to date right now, I get it. But…but I hope we can still be friends?”

Matt nodded hurriedly. “Yeah. Friends.”

And maybe, one day…not that he expected her to wait for him, of course, but maybe…one day.

She changed the subject. “Have you told Foggy?”

Matt shifted his weight. “Uh, no. Not yet.”

“ _Oh_.” That one word was heavy, loaded with meaning. “Are you worried about how he’ll react?”

Matt didn’t want to confirm it out loud. He just nodded again.

She didn’t tell him he was being stupid. “Are you going to tell him?” she asked instead.

“I have to.”

“You really don’t.”

“I want to,” Matt corrected himself. “Mostly,” he added honestly. “It’s just…”

“Yeah.” The single word was heavy. She of all people knew what it was like to have something you _needed_ to tell someone, to have part of you genuinely _want_ to tell them, to let them carry some of this weight, and yet…and yet, well, to be terrified.

“I wanna talk to him today, though. Stop overthinking, just do it. Power through, you know?”

She took a long sip of her wine, then tilted her head away, picking at a loose thread on the couch. “You can call him from here, if you want. I’ll be emotional support.”

He half-grinned. “Really?”

“You can even use my phone.” Her voice turned teasing. “Throw him off when it’s you instead of me.”

Matt raised his eyebrows. “Always best to start these conversations with the other person feeling as confused as possible.”

“That’s what all the experts say.”

“I’d rather just text him,” Matt admitted.

“You sure?”

It felt a bit like the coward’s way out, but he was still asking to talk. That was the important thing. Choosing to text over calling was just a matter of pacing himself. “Yeah.” He had his phone, the new one Foggy gave him. Pulling it out of his pocket, he turned it over and over in his hands, wondering what he was waiting for.

Karen surprised him by not asking.

Something came to mind, and he figured he might as well get her take on it. He tilted his head in her direction. “My therapist said I should set boundaries for the conversation. About what we talk about, that kind of thing.”

“Makes sense,” she said immediately. “Some things should be off-limits unless you want to go there. Have you figured that out yet?”

“Uh, I guess. I have some ideas. None of it even came up with you, though, so…”

“You should write it out,” she said. “Like a contract.”

Matt let out a startled laugh. “What?”

“I’m serious. That way you both know what the boundaries are. You’ll have it right there in black and white.”

The mere thought made Matt uncomfortable, like he was being dramatic or high-maintenance. “That’s not necessary. It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Okay, but _you_ are a big deal to _us_. And this is important to you. Which means it deserves to be taken seriously.”

Really, though?

Suddenly, Karen was on her feet, the movement so without warning that Matt tensed despite himself. She didn’t seem to notice, too focused on whatever she was thinking. “One sec,” she tossed over her shoulder, already darting into another room of her apartment.

She came back to the couch with paper and a pen, balanced on a book. “Okay. Just tell me what you’re thinking, and I’ll write it down.”

“Karen…”

“What?” She suddenly sounded a little sheepish. “Too much?”

His instinct was to immediately say yes, but she was being so kind. He forced himself to take a second and actually think about it.

It was awkward, sure. And it went against every diatribe about self-sufficiency and weakness he’d ever heard from Stick.

But…maybe that was a good thing? Maybe even the fact that he found it uncomfortable was a good thing?

Maybe he wouldn’t know either way until he tried. It felt a little reckless, experimenting like this, but was it really so different from what he did every night?

“Sorry,” Karen said, moving to set everything aside. “I shouldn’t have pushed, you don’t need to—”

“No,” Matt interrupted, one hand on her arm. “Let’s do it.”

~

It took at least fifteen minutes, despite the fact that the end result was only a short albeit well-defined list. Matt would maintain that it was Karen’s fault: he put in a good faith effort, he really did, but she was a perfectionist. As she kept insisting, this was important enough to get right. _He_ was important enough.

In Matt’s opinion, two main points rendered the rest all but irrelevant: Foggy was not to ask follow-up questions, and Matt was allowed to stop whenever he needed to.

(Stick’s voice tried to say he was pathetic, but somehow it was harder to hear today.)

“Ready?” Karen asked, taking his hand and squeeze it.

He nodded. He sent Foggy a text, then waited.

Foggy, of course, wasted no time before skipping texts and just calling back. Karen squeezed Matt’s hand and retreated into her bedroom while Matt held the phone up to his ear.

“Matt?” Foggy sounded tired already.

“Hey, um…” Matt gripped the new phone a little tighter. “I need to tell you what I told Samuel.”

“Really?” Foggy sounded surprised. “I mean, I’m gonna talk to him tomorrow, so—”

“I need,” Matt interrupted, “to be the one to tell you.”

“Oh. Okay.” There was a wariness in Foggy’s voice. “Okay. Go for it.”

“Can I…can I come over?” He didn’t want to do this in his own apartment. He wanted to do it somewhere he could leave if he had to. Foggy’s apartment was ideal. If not that, then somewhere public. But Matt really didn’t want to be in public in case this went…poorly.

There was a pause.

“Absolutely,” Foggy said. “I’m gonna make pancakes.”

Matt felt for his watch. “It’s almost seven at night.”

“So? Pancakes are my comfort food, Murdock, you know this.”

Matt managed a tiny smile. “I’ll bring peanut butter.”

“Ew,” Foggy muttered. “Why you insist on ruining perfectly good pancakes with peanut butter—”

“Peanut butter improves everything.”

“Not everything,” Foggy argued. “Not brussels sprouts.”

“Brussels sprouts are better with peanut butter, actually.”

“Why are we friends?” Foggy inquired, apparently of the universe at large, and hung up.

Assuming he hadn’t been uninvited, Matt asked Karen if he could borrow a jar of peanut butter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Psalm 8:4 ~ "What is man that you are mindful of him, and the son of man that you care for him?"
> 
> Also, someone - and I somehow CANNOT find the right comment - imagined Matt literally writing the boundaries out like a contract, and I thought it was nerdy and adorable, so I stole that idea. I'll give a proper shoutout when I find the comment! <3
> 
> *edit* It was SandyEffingFrank! They're a genius!


	30. Proverbs 18:24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for...a conversation that's rough, at points. Foggy gets some things right, but definitely doesn't handle it perfectly. I promise there's a happy ending! (To the fic, and to the chapter.)

Matt was tired already. So tired. Maybe this was too much. What was he thinking, trying to say this _three times_ in a single day?

He should sleep.

No, he should power through.

No, he should give himself a chance to rest.

No, he _wanted this_. (He wanted this to be over. He wanted to finally know how Foggy would react. He wanted the support of his best friend.)

Matt honestly had no idea if he was doing the right thing or not when he showed up at Foggy’s apartment.

The place smelled like pancakes, warm and buttery. Foggy opened the door with a hint of apparent trepidation and gestured Matt inside. Matt couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this nervous stepping into his best friend’s apartment.

Foggy shifted his weight, making it perfectly obvious that Matt was utterly failing at masking his anxiety. “Um, so…” Foggy said. “Pancakes?”

“Yeah,” Matt agreed too quicky. “That’d be great.”

The kitchen was warmer than the rest of the apartment. Matt slid onto one of the stools at the counter, drumming an anxious pattern on the countertop, while Foggy opened the oven to pull out a massive plate stacked high with pancakes. He’d been keeping them warm in the oven, Matt realized, struck by the thoughtfulness of the gesture.

Foggy was trying _so hard_ to make this work.

Matt folded his hands in his lap as Foggy slid the plate across the counter towards him. “So, um,” he began awkwardly, “I didn’t coach Samuel.”

“You didn’t,” Foggy said, not quite a question. Waiting to see what else Matt had to say in his defense.

“I didn’t,” Matt insisted. “Our conversation about…reflexes, triggers, all of that, it all happened before we ever filed the complaint, before we even officially took the case. And I wasn’t telling Samuel what to say to anyone else. I was just helping him understand.”

“Is that how Samuel will say it happened?”

Matt told himself firmly (maybe a little desperately) that Foggy wasn’t asking because he thought Matt was lying. He was just being thorough. For Samuel’s sake. “That’s what happened.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Huh.” Foggy folded his arms across his chest. “Okay. So now I feel like I seriously overreacted. But I don’t really think that’s my fault, ’cause I would’ve chilled out pretty fast if you’d explained it like that from the beginning. Or later, in your apartment. Or…at all. At literally any point.”

Matt wet his lips. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“I mean, there’s still something you’re not telling me, right?”

Matt averted his gaze. “Yeah. Yeah, there is.”

Foggy seemed to gather his patience. “Is it gonna affect the case?”

“No. Well…” Matt winced. “Not directly. That’s why…” He shoved his hands into his pocket. “We’re partners. You should know this. But, uh…” He pressed his lips together. “You’re also my best friend. And I just…I need to be able to tell you this.”

A few minutes later, they were sitting next to each other on the couch, a plate stacked high with pancakes sitting on the coffee table. Easier this way, side-by-side, when it didn’t feel so much like Foggy was bearing down on him. But Matt knew he had all of Foggy’s attention. The weight of it, always foreign after Matt spent so many years escaping anyone’s notice, was even heavier than usual.

For one second, he wished Karen would’ve told Foggy so he wouldn’t have to. But she wouldn’t do that. And really, he didn’t want her to. He only had once chance to tell Foggy the truth, and he didn’t want that chance taken away. Even if this went…badly, Matt could at least say he’d had the courage to start the conversation.

He reminded himself what Dr. Dorner said: he didn’t have to tell Foggy everything; if Foggy got upset, he could stop; if _he_ got upset, he could stop.

With that in mind, he showed Foggy the contract Karen wrote. “I need you to follow this.”

Foggy’s heart beat even faster. “Um…sure. No problem.”

“Okay.” Matt took a deep breath. He could do this. He’d told Father Lantom and Karen and they hadn’t cringed away from him. He could trust Foggy. “I was fourteen…”

~

It took Foggy what felt like a strangely long amount of time to figure out where Matt was going with this, why Matt was telling him this random story about a church camp years ago. Even when Matt said Sheridan asked to see his face, Foggy didn’t seem to understand the significance. Fair enough, maybe; Foggy wasn’t Catholic and didn’t necessarily understand how confession was supposed to work. But surely the context of this whole conversation should be cluing him in?

Or maybe Foggy was just that desperate not to know. The thought made Matt hesitate.

But he kept going.

He recognized the exact moment when Foggy realized what this was really about. When Matt started explaining that Sheridan wanted to do something different for penance, Foggy suddenly shot to his feet, hands raising like he wanted to cover his ears. “Okay, okay, _shit_ , you don’t have to tell me—”

“Let me finish.” If Foggy couldn’t even handle _hearing_ this, how was he gonna be able to handle being anywhere near Matt?

Something in his voice must’ve gotten through to Foggy, because he stopped and turned, lowering his hands and sitting back down. “Sorry. Keep going.”

Trying not to track Foggy’s every reaction, Matt did just that. He didn’t fill in all the details, but he talked for at least half an hour longer, occasionally circling back in time to bring up something else he’d forgotten to say at the beginning. Some details came out that he hadn’t even told Father Lantom or Karen. He didn’t understand that, and didn’t want to look too closely. He also got emotional in a way he hadn’t with Father Lantom or Karen, and once or twice needed to stop and collect himself until the risk of crying had passed. Foggy was patient, so patient.

When he finally finished, the room was as dead silent as it was possible for a place to be. Matt spread his hands weakly, like, _there you have it_.

Foggy wiped at his eyes. “I don’t…I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything.”

“I’m sorry, man. I’m so sorry.”

“Not your fault.” The give-and-take was familiar by this point.

“No one knew what was happening? Not even—” Foggy suddenly cut himself off.

Maggie was on the list of topics that were not to be discussed.

“No one knew,” Matt said through his teeth. “I didn’t…know how to explain it. And Father Sheridan said I couldn’t tell anyone.”

“I can’t imagine…” Foggy still sounded…dazed, kind of. Overwhelmed. He wasn’t like Karen, though. He didn’t know how to deal with something in silence. Even when he didn’t know what to say, he always felt like he had to say something. Matt knew that about him; Matt generally loved that about him. But it didn’t make it any easier when Foggy asked, “Why didn’t you tell him to stop?”

Matt stiffened. “I couldn’t.”

Foggy stiffened, too. “Did he threaten you? Is that why you were so worried about Geary and—”

“He didn’t threaten me.” Matt’s nails bit into his palms as his hands formed fists. “Not physically, at least. But…spiritually, yeah. He said I’d go to hell.”

Foggy sounded, if anything, even more confused now. “But…that’s not true, is it? I mean, is that…is that what you really believe?” His voice went up at the end, like he was afraid the answer would be yes.

Matt didn’t want to talk about this. But he hadn’t explicitly put it on the contract, and it didn’t seem fair to surprise Foggy with a new out-of-bounds topic. “It’s not true. I know that now. I think…maybe I even knew that then.” (Why was he saying that? Was it even true?) “I don’t know.”

“…I don’t understand,” Foggy said meekly.

And why would he? Matt knew what he wasn’t saying. See, Matt was never exactly averse to asking hard questions, to challenging people. He heard the sisters whispering behind his back when he was a kid, calling him a menace for poking holes in their attempts to explain doctrine. Foggy knew Matt’s faith was as much about the logic of it as it was about the heart or the soul, so of course he wouldn’t understand why Matt had been so easy to manipulate.

And this was exactly what he was afraid of, wasn’t it? Foggy not getting it, Foggy not understanding, maybe even Foggy thinking it was Matt’s fault, or that Matt wanted it, or—

Matt shook his head sharply. “You wouldn’t understand. You’ve never been religious. And, frankly, I don’t think it’s my job to help you understand.”

As soon as he said it, he was surprised at himself. He wasn’t normally that harsh with Foggy, or that direct. But he couldn’t say he was sorry he’d said it.

Foggy instantly backpedaled. “Sorry, I’m really sorry. I’m just…trying to make sense of this.”

“Stop trying. It doesn’t _make_ sense.”

Foggy finally, _finally_ fell silent.

Matt instantly felt guilty. He hadn’t meant to make Foggy feel bad. He just…he’d just wanted to explain what happened, why did it have to be so _complicated?_

He shouldn’t have pushed for this. Not tonight, anyway. He was too drained, and Foggy wasn’t prepared. It wasn’t fair to either of them. He should just go. They could deal with this in the morning.

But Foggy’s apartment was warm, and he knew Foggy was trying to be there for him, and Matt didn’t want to just throw in the towel. Not yet.

Foggy shifted his weight on the couch. “So, um…can I ask…I mean, obviously you’ve been having a hard time, but, like…has it been this bad the whole time?”

The _did I just not notice_ went unsaid.

“No. I don’t know. I wasn’t, um…” Matt’s throat tightened; he tried to clear it, waited a second before going on. “I wasn’t thinking about it. So I don’t really know how, um, how much it’s been…” He waved his hand vaguely, not wanting to have to say it out loud, not wanting to admit that he still didn’t know how much it had affected him, maybe he’d _never_ know, and that was absolutely terrifying.

“Right,” Foggy said quickly. “Has your therapist been helping? I mean, she knows, right?”

Matt nodded, cleared his throat again. “That’s why I started seeing her. To make sure it wasn’t affecting the case.” He needed Foggy to know that, needed Foggy to know that even if it _had_ affected the case, it wasn’t because Matt was being…careless or reckless or cavalier about any of it. Matt was _trying_.

But Foggy just repeated, “The case,” in a tone that made the hairs on the back of Matt’s neck stand up.

Matt tilted his head. “What?”

“I made you take this case,” Foggy whispered, voice strangled with horror.

Matt immediately shook his head. “You didn’t make me do anything.”

“I didn’t know,” he said weakly.

“I didn’t tell you,” Matt returned.

“I’m so sorry, Matt.”

“I didn’t tell you.”

“You shouldn’t have to.”

Matt scoffed. “What, so you’re supposed to read my mind?”

“I knew you were upset—”

“Doesn’t mean you knew _why_.”

“I should’ve _asked_.”

Matt gritted his teeth. Foggy was spiraling into guilt, and it wasn’t like Matt couldn’t relate to that kind of thing, but that wasn’t what he needed to hear right now. “You _did_. Repeatedly. I didn’t tell you.”

“But—” Foggy broke off. “Sorry, man.”

“What?”

“Sorry, I’m…this is supposed to be about you, and here I am making this about me, making you _defend_ me.” He sank back onto the couch. “Where’s my Worst Friend award. Wait—shit, I’m doing it again. Sorry. I’ll just…shut up.” To prove it, he clamped a hand over his mouth.

Matt cracked a small smile. “You’re a great friend, Foggy.”

To his relief, Foggy didn’t argue the point. He lowered his hand. “What about this,” he began. “Can you tell me how I can, y’know, be there for you more? In the future? Like, what can I do—or maybe not do—differently? To help?”

“…I don’t know,” Matt admitted. “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be doing.”

Foggy put his hand on Matt’s knee and squeezed it. “Yeah. I get it. I mean, I _don’t_ , but…I get it. What about this: you get a blank check to tell me to knock it off, if I’m doing something that’s not helpful. And when you _do_ think of stuff I can do, you have free reign to tell me. Even if you have to, like, call me up at three in the morning to tell me, I wanna know. Okay? Deal?”

Matt exhaled slowly. “That is a deal.”

They sat without speaking for a few minutes; Matt wasn’t sure how long. Easier not to track the passing of time, to pretend they were in some twilight world where tomorrow and its responsibilities would never come.

Then, of course, Foggy broke the silence. “You know, if you told Karen, she’s probably already found him.”

Matt concentrated on breathing.

“Shit—does that not help to hear?”

Matt forced himself to lift his head. “What does it matter?”

Foggy got on his knees in front of Matt. “Listen. What happens is totally up to you. I’m just saying, if we know his name, if we find him…the statute of limitations is lifted, just for a year. We can prosecute!”

Matt’s mouth went dry.

“We can make him pay for what he did to you, and we can make sure he never does it to anyone else—”

“Don’t,” Matt rasped. “Don’t—don’t—” 

“What?”

Matt dug his nails into his hands. He wasn’t getting enough oxygen. “It’s not about—don’t make it about—about the other people, Fogs, I can’t—I can’t—”

“Hey, hey.” Foggy put his hands on Matt’s arms. “Easy. Breathe. Sorry, I didn’t mean to…I’m not saying you have to bring charges just to stop him from doing this again, that’s _not_ what I’m saying. That’s on him, not you. Sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Matt waited until his breathing was mostly under control. He closed his eyes, wishing he could cover his ears as well. “Foggy.”

“…Yeah?”

“I’m being so selfish.”

“What? No. _No_. Matt…Matt, look at me.”

Matt dragged his eyes open, tipping his head to the side and raising his eyebrows exaggeratedly in Foggy’s direction.

“Good enough,” Foggy said, squeezing Matt’s arms. “Listen. Forget everything I said about other people. This is about _you_ right now. And that’s okay. You, Matt Murdock, are the least selfish person I know, and you do _so much_ to help people, all day and all night. If bringing charges isn’t gonna help you, then we’re not gonna do it. Simple as that.”

“But it would help _them_.”

“We don’t even know that! And it’s not worth the risk of…if you’re not ready for it.”

Matt swallowed. “I’m ready.” He was done hiding.

Foggy was still gripping Matt’s arms. “Shit, Matt, I’m not a therapist. But I don’t believe you.”

“You think I can’t handle this?”

“That’s _not_ what I’m saying!” Foggy stopped and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, man. I shouldn’t have brought any of this up. You don’t have to decide anything right this second anyway, okay?”

Matt shook his head.

“Don’t shake your head at me. We have a whole year, almost.”

Matt wet his lips. “But the evidence is stale.”

“…Buddy, I’m really pretty sure we shouldn’t even be talking about this right now. Let’s just, like, watch a movie or something, yeah?”

Matt shook his head again. “We don’t have time. If we’re going to move forward with this—”

“Who says we are?”

Matt ignored him. “—We have to try to find witnesses. That’s all the evidence we’ll have, unless—unless one of the others got a—a—r-rape kit done, because I d-d-d—” He stopped, caught his breath, forced himself away from the precipice and back under control. “I didn’t.”

There was salt in the air from the tears Foggy was holding back. “That’s okay, buddy. You didn’t have to.”

No, because now their direct evidence would have to come from another of Sheridan’s victims. But even _if_ one of them had gotten a rape kit done, that didn’t mean they wanted to parade it around as evidence. Which was what Matt was asking them to do, all because _he’d_ been too stupid to think of it—

“That’s it.” Foggy stood up, and tugged on Matt’s arms until Matt stood, too. “We’re watching something wholesome. Who’s your favorite Disney princess?”

“Who’s my—what?”

“Who’s your favorite Disney princess?”

“I don’t have a—”

“Bullshit, we all have a favorite, you just don’t wanna tell me. Spit it out, Murdock.”

“Foggy.”

“I’m not kidding. I never kid about Disney princesses.”

Matt pressed his lips together. Foggy was trying so hard, but he was doing this all wrong.

“Wanna know mine?” Foggy wheedled. “Tiana. I totally relate to the whole hard-working, entrepreneurial culinary angle. Also, I just _know_ any and all spells I ever encountered would backfire on me. Okay, see? I’ve told you mine, now you have to tell me yours. It’s a contractual obligation.”

Matt sighed.

“Matt.”

“Foggy.”

“Is it Mulan?” Foggy guessed.

Matt opened his mouth to shut down this conversation for good, but he was curious despite himself. “Why Mulan?”

“Because she kicks ass, dude. C’mon, am I right? I’m right, aren’t I? Wait!” Foggy gasped dramatically. “ _No_.”

“What?”

“Don’t tell me it’s Belle. You can’t be that much of a nerd, Matt, you just can’t. I will disown you.”

Matt raised his eyebrows. Yeah, Mulan and Belle were pretty cool. But even though Matt wasn’t terribly well-versed in Disney princess movies, given that he’d only listened to most of them once, when Foggy randomly forced them to have a roommate Disney night to cope with particularly stressful weeks in law school, a name did come to mind. He picked at a loose thread on the couch. “Rapunzel,” he said softly. “I think.”

Foggy breathed out. “Huh. Okay, I can…I can see that.”

After an awkward pause, Matt forced a grin. “It’s the hair, right?”

And Foggy forced a laugh. “It’s _definitely_ the hair. And the big, big green eyes.”

“My eyes aren’t green, Foggy.”

“Oh, they are in the right light. Or, well, more like hazel-ish, but still.”

Matt’s forehead creased. “Really?”

“Yep, but that’s infinitely less important than the revelation that my best friend’s favorite Disney princess is Rapunzel. C’mon, let’s watch _Tangled_.”

Foggy was impossible to resist. Not that Matt especially wanted to resist him. Matt made popcorn with just the right amount of butter and salt while Foggy set up the movie with audio description and piled blankets on the couch. They at close together, close enough that Matt could feel Foggy’s warmth, a warmth that went somewhere deeper than something that was purely physical ever could. Within the first ten minutes of the movie, Foggy had already eaten half the popcorn. He kept up a steady stream of commentary, and Matt honestly couldn’t tell if Foggy was actually distracted or rather trying to distract himself.

Either way, Matt was having a much harder time focusing. His thoughts swirled through his head, unresolved, each splintering into multiple possibilities, all of them taking him somewhere he didn’t want to go.

“Foggy,” Matt said suddenly, quietly.

Foggy cut himself off mid-sermon about the merits of the costume design of an animated film. “Yeah?”

“They won’t believe me.”

Immediately giving up any pretense of watching the movie, Foggy turned to face him. “What do you mean?”

“Men don’t get raped.”

Foggy took a slow, steadying breath. “Matt. You know that’s not true.”

“But people think it.”

“People are getting better.”

Right. Maybe they were. Matt gave a small nod. He tried to listen to the movie.

He twisted his hands in the blanket. “…Foggy?”

“Yeah?”

“They won’t believe _me_.”

Foggy muted the movie and turned to face him. “What, you specifically?”

Matt just nodded.

“Okay. Can you tell me why?”

“Because—because—because they’ll ask if I—” He twisted harder. The blanket was about to cut off the circulation to his wrists. “They’ll ask if I got an erection. And—and I’ll, um, I’ll have to say yes.”

Foggy’s heartbeat tripped in his chest. “That doesn’t mean—”

Matt squeezed his eyes shut. “They’ll ask if I came.”

Foggy shot to his feet, pacing back and forth in front of the couch. “I’m gonna kill him.”

Matt pulled the blanket up to his chin and whispered, “Thank you.”

“It’s not your fault, you know that, right? It’s just the stimulation, it’s not about pleasure or consent or any of that. Hell, I get hard riding motorcycles, and I’ll tell everyone!”

Matt blinked in surprise. “You’ll tell everyone, including the judge, that you get hard riding motorcycles?”

“I will,” Foggy insisted. “Watch me.”

It lit a bit of warmth deep in Matt’s chest. “…Still, though,” he said. “The defense will just say it means I wanted it.”

Foggy stopped pacing, deflated. “Yeah. Yeah, they might say that.” He sat back down on the couch. “Remember what I said, though? Tonight isn’t the night for deciding if you wanna press charges. Tonight is a night for Disney and alcohol.”

“Sorry.”

“No, don’t—don’t _apologize_. C’mere.” Foggy grabbed Matt’s wrist, then froze. “I mean…uh, is it okay if I hug you?”

The very question made tears spark in Matt’s eyes. He bit down hard on his lip until the danger of crying had passed. “Foggy,” he said, slowly and clearly. “If you stop hugging me, and bumping into me, and dragging me around places…if you stop doing all that just because of this, I don’t…I don’t think I can…I don’t think I’ll be able to _handle_ that.”

“Noted,” Foggy said instantly, and pulled Matt close. “There, see? Just a snuggle between two bros. Brings you back to law school, doesn’t it? Remember when the heat went out in December?”

Resting his head on Foggy’s shoulder, Matt closed his eyes. “Tell me?” He remembered. But he’d rather hear the story than listen to the movie.

Never one to resist temptation to talk, Foggy launched obligingly into the story. It was a story of simpler times but a thousand more secrets, walls between them that Foggy hadn’t even known were there, and Matt couldn’t help thinking maybe he’d rather have _this_. Honesty. Intimacy, even. With all its messy complexity.

~

Matt left Foggy’s apartment, drained, at around one in the morning, head aching like he was hungover and exhausted like he’d run a marathon. Maybe telling three people in one day was too much. Or maybe a sense of accomplishment would come soon.

If so, it was taking its sweet time.

Instead, the one thing he couldn’t get out of his mind was the sense that he’d somehow…done this wrong. Said too much, said too little, gotten too emotional, missed crucial details that would make the whole thing make sense….

Was that how Samuel felt, each time he told his story? How did it not drive him crazy?

Matt thought it was more like so-called self-protection than avoidance when he shoved the thoughts away. He fed the cat and fell into bed. Eventually, she hopped up on the mattress by his face, nuzzling at the blankets until Matt figured out what she wanted. He lifted the blanket a little, and she burrowed underneath and curled up on her side, soft belly exposed, warm back pressed against her chest, purring contendedly.

Matt never really grew up with stuffed animals like other kids, and he couldn’t help thinking this was infinitely better anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Proverbs 18:24 ~ "A man of many companions may come to ruin, but there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother."
> 
> So honestly, this conversation could've gone a lot of ways. But I thought it was important to show that, even though talking to (trusted) people about trauma is good, it's not always easy - and not only because it's hard for you, but also because even good friends won't have perfect reactions. And it seemed most realistic, I guess, to show that through Foggy. It's just that in the show, I don't feel like we ever saw Foggy really support Matt with, like, WORDS, the same way that he supports Matt with actions (like bringing him the suit, or convincing Karen not to leave him). Foggy was so, so gentle with Karen when she confessed about Wesley, but I don't feel like we ever saw Foggy be that gentle with Matt. Which is kinda how I justify letting him handle this imperfectly a couple times here. I also wanted to explore how someone who has religious trauma (yet has chosen to remain religious) can have are particularly hard time talking about it with someone who isn't religious, and Karen's parents, at least, were religious, so it made more sense to me to show this with Foggy. BUT HE IS A GOOD FRIEND AND WILL GET TO FURTHER REDEEM HIMSELF, I PROMISE.


	31. 2 Corinthians 8:21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this chapter is, overall, not actually that angsty for once? Except that one reader, Nurisiliel, pointed out that Claire was supposed to help Matt get a litterbox and sundry for the cat, and I...forgot. Totally forgot. And I feel terrible and guilty about it. So, naturally, I'm projecting those feelings onto Matt. Sorry.

Sunday morning, Matt jolted awake to his phone buzzing loudly on his nightstand as it chanted Foggy’s name. He fumbled to answer. “Hullo?”

 _“Hey, buddy!”_ Foggy’s voice was way too loud and cheerful for whatever-time-it-was in the morning. _“I’m supposed to be at Hannah and Samuel’s place in, like, forty-five to tell them what’s up with the coaching motion, and I forgot to ask last night if you wanted to come too?”_

Matt’s brain took longer than usual to work sluggishly through all the facts Foggy just shot at him. But by the time he put it together, he was nodding. “Yeah. Yeah, just, uh…” Kicking his sheets aside, he stumbled to his feet.

_“Did I wake you up?”_

Matt’s first instinct was to lie. Tired as he was, he barely managed to bite it back. “Um, yeah,” he admitted instead.

Foggy’s voice suddenly changed, became quieter. _“Did you go out last night? After you left?”_

“No.” He’d gone straight home and to bed; hadn’t even considered putting on the suit, actually. Who would’ve thought a few hours of emotional conversation were more exhausting than chasing bad guys across Hell’s Kitchen?

 _“Okay.”_ Foggy didn’t explicitly say whether he approved, but his voice suggested he was relieved to hear it. _“Still. The meeting shouldn’t really be that big of a deal. You can sit this one out, if you want.”_

Shit, did Foggy think Matt wasn’t up for this, somehow? Because of last night? “No, no,” Matt said hurriedly. “I’ll be there.”

 _“Sure,”_ Foggy said casually, _“if you want. But I’m just saying, if it were me, I’d be staying home all day with Netflix, y’know?”_

The terrible thing about phone conversations was that Matt couldn’t hear heartbeats. He couldn’t be absolutely certain that Foggy _wasn’t_ saying all this because in fact his view of Matt was now fundamentally changed.

But maybe Matt could just…trust, even if he couldn’t verify.

And besides, lying back down sounded really good.

Right on cue, Stick’s voice slithered through his mind, mocking him for wanting to curl up under silk sheets when he had a job to do. Sheridan told him to stop being so wretchedly selfish. Even Jack was urging him to get up, _get to work_.

 _No_. He didn’t need to. He could take a day. That wasn’t pitiful or selfish or lazy. It was perfectly okay.

For a split second, Matt wondered if he’d ever know freedom from arguing with all the thoughts in his head all the time, and whether it was even worth it. But that wasn’t something he had to work out right now. He could deal with it in therapy in a few days. That wasn’t being avoidant, was it? That was just…giving himself permission to relax. To rest. To heal, like Father Lantom said.

(It was Sunday, but he didn’t even have to go to mass. And it wasn’t because the thought made him uncomfortable. It was just because…he didn’t _have_ to.)

 _“Matt?”_ There was a hint of anxiety in Foggy’s voice. _“You still there?”_

“Sorry.” Matt slowly sat back on the bed, on silk sheets warmed by the sun pouring in from the window. “Just thinking. Maybe…maybe you’re right?” He couldn’t help the way his voice went up at the end, nervous, like Foggy would suddenly retract every gentle thing he’d just said and decide he didn’t want such a walking disaster for a law partner or a friend.

Foggy paused. _“You okay?”_

“Yeah,” Matt said quickly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

_“Just…agreeing to not do something is kinda out of character for you. Is something wrong?”_

Of course Foggy couldn’t just let him get away with trying out this new approach without getting worried and suspicious. Of course it couldn’t be that simple. Matt dragged his hand down his face. Why did everything have to be _such a big deal?_

He shifted the phone to his other ear. “Nothing’s wrong. Seriously. I’m just…really tired.”

As soon as he said it, he wished he’d been more honest. Or, rather, more specific. Everyone knew that _I’m just tired_ was a classic excuse to hide worse things.

But it seemed that Foggy was trying as hard to trust Matt as Matt was trying to trust him, because he just said, _“Cool. Totally get it. I can swing by later, bring some food, let you know how it went?”_

“Yeah.” Matt leaned back against his pillows. “Sounds good. Thanks.”

 _“No problem.”_ Foggy hung up.

Letting his eyes fall closed, Matt set the phone on the nightstand. There. That wasn’t too bad.

The sound of tiny paws approached from the living room. Unfortunately, the noise was accompanied by the scent of urine.

Matt winced. She came and went frequently enough that this was only the second accident she’d had, but it was a glaring reminder of yet another thing Matt had been too distracted to properly deal with. But before the guilt could come crowding in, the cat hopped up onto the bed and sat down in his lap, facing him, nose about an inch from his chest.

She _mewed_.

And Matt couldn’t help but smile. “Good morning to you, too.”

Then she started to lie down, but that would leave Matt stuck sitting up, and that was _not_ the plan for this morning. Shifting her with one hand, he wriggled down onto his back, then allowed her to resettle on his chest, curled up tight. She tucked her nose under a paw as if blocking out the sun, and began purring lazily.

Matt let his eyes drift closed.

~

It was as true of Samuel as it would be if Matt ever tried to bring a case: they needed more witnesses. Samuel’s testimony was powerful, yes, and parts of his story were corroborated by the files Matt and Foggy requested from the DA—and primarily from Brett, whose case file included scattered bits of incriminating evidence that the DA apparently couldn’t be bothered to string together to get more than two convictions for lesser crimes—and Samuel’s medical and psychological reports, but it wouldn’t be enough.

Technically, the possibility remained to use Geary’s plea as evidence in the civil case—some states ruled that Alford pleas were per se inadmissible in subsequent civil cases, since Alford pleas were not an admission to any facts, but New York left the door open. Matt wasn’t optimistic, however, since neither of the acts Geary pled to were identical to the myriad acts alleged in Samuel’s complaint.

They were on their own to find corroboration. But all their discovery requests to Geary’s lawyers and the church’s lawyers came up empty, which meant there’d be no saving the day with a piece of evidence found at the last minute. They needed something else.

And Matt had an idea where to start.

He called Foggy early Monday morning, letting him know he’d be late in to work. Foggy was relaxed about it and didn’t even ask why. Matt thought about offering up the explanation anyway, but he was kind of worried Foggy would try to talk him out of it. Besides, he didn’t want Foggy to get his hopes up only to be disappointed if this didn’t…work.

He let the cat out for the day, then put on jeans and a thick sweater instead of a suit and tie. He didn’t want this to be about his firm. This needed to be about Samuel.

He’d gotten her contact info from Karen so he could email ahead of time, but Rachel still seemed a bit nervous when she opened the door. “Hello, Mr. Murdock. Good to see you again. Um, I mean—”

“It’s fine.” He smiled. It felt like years since she’d arrived at their office to tell them about her experiences with Geary. “It’s good to hear your voice again. And please, call me Matt.”

Flushing a little, she held the door open for him. “Can I get you anything?”

“Only if you’re getting it for yourself, too.”

He was rewarded with a tiny laugh. “I’ll grab us coffee, then. I’m not sure I can have this conversation without caffeine. You can follow me to the kitchen, if you want.”

Good—better to have this conversation while she had something else to do. Nothing that would require a distracting amount of thought, but something she could turn to if things got too heavy. She was less likely to feel trapped this way. He hoped.

He followed her through the home. The baby was strapped to a swinging seat in the kitchen, plump and happy and cooing softly to herself. “Uh, so I’ll get right to the point,” he began, leaning against a counter while she busied herself with the coffee maker. “You originally said, when you talked with us, that you’re not interested in formal representation or in going on the record.”

She kept her attention on the coffee maker. “I’m sorry. I wish I could be more helpful.”

“Maybe you could be. All we need is something to corroborate our client’s story.”

“What happened to me was years ago, Mr. Murdock—”

“Matt, please.”

She swept on as the coffee percolated. “How am I supposed to corroborate it?”

“Several ways. For one, if we first get Geary to deny ever doing anything illicit at all, we can prove him a liar if we can prove what he did to you. Or at least raise doubt, even if we can’t prove it. For another, if the specific facts you give align with the facts of our client’s story—”

She was already shaking her head as she distractedly poured two mugs, handing one to him. “You don’t need me. Geary was convicted—”

“Yes,” Matt interrupted gently, “but he won’t be in jail for long, and his conviction doesn’t mean St. Matthew’s will be held accountable. Or St. Mark’s, for that matter. What if these churches just hire other priests who’re just as bad? What if people keep getting hurt?”

She stiffened. “So it’s my fault if they get hurt, is that what you’re saying?”

Matt felt sick. “No. That’s not—no. I’m just saying…if holding the churches accountable is it all a factor for you, please don’t assume that Geary’s arrest or conviction will take care of that.”

She bit her lip.

“Rachel, the church, they gave us _nothing_. And whatever they have, they’ve been able to hide it from the police, too. All we have is our client’s word, and whatever we can trick Geary into admitting. But if you could at least put us in contact with the people who raised a complaint on your behalf…then we’ll have _something_ , just some evidence that St. Mark’s, at least, knew what Geary was.”

Her forehead creased. Her head turned towards sleeping baby.

“Could you at least tell me why you’re opposed to this? Maybe whatever you’re worried about is a problem we can solve.”

She seemed to brace herself. “If my name’s made public like this, it won’t just affect me. I’ve told my husband what happened, but that doesn’t mean I want him reminded of it every time he sees an article with my name. And what about my daughter?” Desperation tinged her voice. “What happens when she’s old enough to read the articles? What happens when someone tells her? When she finds out what happened to me should be my decision. And the only way I can keep it that way is by staying private.”

Matt swallowed hard. He couldn’t relate. Not entirely. If the truth got out about what happened to him, it wouldn’t affect anyone else.

But it wasn’t like he couldn’t relate at all. “Listen, Rachel, I…” He waited until she faced him again. “I know what I’m asking here. I really do.”

She tensed. “Excuse me?”

He kept his voice steady. “It happened to me, too.”

“What?” she breathed.

“It happened to me.” He dropped his eyes towards the counter, reciting the words almost mechanically now, like they’d been overused. “I was fourteen. It was a priest at a summer camp. I never told anyone. I still don’t know if anything ever happened to him.”

“I…I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “I didn’t talk about it for years. Barely let myself think about it. Easier to pretend it never happened, you know? Except it wasn’t. Easier, I mean. I didn’t even realize it, but it was…it was touching everything. You know?”

She gripped her mug tighter. “I can’t imagine not telling anyone for so long.”

“I didn’t…really have anyone I could trust.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“No, I’m not—I’m not here for that. I’m just saying, I know what I’m asking. I really do.” He paused, debating whether it was appropriate to keep pushing. He wasn’t sure that it was. Yet he had to. “Rachel, this case…we need more evidence than we’ve got. But your friend’s parents, they might have something we can use. Records of emails to the church, journal entries, anything.”

“But it’d be public, wouldn’t it?”

Matt wished he could give another answer. “We can try to keep that kind of evidence sealed. And if you testify, we can request that you do it anonymously. But there’s no guarantee the judge will agree.”

“What if…what if I just give you the evidence? The records, whatever?”

“We don’t have to call you as a witness,” Matt answered slowly. “We could call your friend’s parents, if you think they’d be willing. That might be good enough. But I can’t promise the other side wouldn’t want to question you.”

“Would it be hard?” she asked hesitantly.

Again, Matt wished he didn’t have to be honest. “It could be brutal.”

“And even with all this, you still might not win.”

“Nothing’s guaranteed,” Matt admitted.

“But…” She twisted her hands together. “But you definitely won’t win without my help?”

“I don’t see how.”

“Okay.” She drummed her fingers on the counter. “Look, I’ll…I’ll reach out to my friend’s parents.”

Matt felt his eyes widen. “You will?”

“But I can’t promise more than that,” she added quickly.

“No, that’s…that’s great, really. That’d be a tremendous help. I…thank you,” he finished lamely, not trusting his ability to come up with a more articulate response. “Seriously. I…I know it would be easier to just leave this all behind, but…”

“I want to help.” Her voice hardened. “Someone has to make these people pay.”

~

Walking to work after meeting with Rachel (after stopping home just long enough to change into a suit), Matt felt almost…giddy? He didn’t know if it was relief at having done something right, or leftover adrenaline from so many difficult conversations, or anxiety about what was coming next, or just general hysteria, but he felt almost drunk as he hurried into Foggy’s office to let him know what happened.

“You…told…Rachel?” Foggy said slowly, once Matt had finished pouring out the story, still sitting behind his desk. “About you?”

Matt nodded, smiling nervously. “Yeah, I just…I thought it’d help. I mean, I realize it could have made no difference whatsoever for her, it’s not like my life necessarily means anything to her, but I just…I thought it was worth the risk, you know?”

Foggy, strangely, was _not_ jumping for joy at these proceedings. He pushed his chair back from his desk, but didn’t get up yet. “Okay. You didn’t tell me you were gonna talk to her.”

Matt frowned. “Should I have? It—it’s not like this would hurt the case. Worst thing that could happen is she could’ve said she still didn’t want to help.”

“No, I just mean…” Foggy shook his head. Sighed. “I don’t know what I’m saying.”

That wasn’t true. Foggy always knew what he wanted to say, even if he wasn’t always able to say it exactly right. Matt fell silent, opting for waiting him out.

Sure enough: “You’re sure you’re not just making up for not going with me to see Samuel yesterday?”

Truthfully, Matt couldn’t blame him for suspecting that. “No,” he said honestly. “I just…thought this was something I should do.”

“Hmm.” Foggy started fidgeting with a pen, not saying anything else.

Matt set his hands on his hips. “Whatever you’re thinking, you can just say it.”

Foggy guiltily dropped the pen on the desk. “Sorry, I just—I’m trying to figure out if I _should_ say it.”

That was ominous. “Foggy,” Matt began, with no clear idea where to end that sentence.

“Okay, okay.” Foggy stood up, sticking his hands in his pockets. “It’s just that, like…you’ve gone _years_ without telling _anyone_ , and now you’ve told, what, four people in three days? That just seems like…a lot?”

Matt raised his eyebrows. “Is that a problem?”

“Maybe? I mean, it’s not like you’re never…reckless. Especially with yourself.”

Matt exhaled sharply. “This isn’t the same thing as backflipping off a roof, Foggy.”

“I know, I know.” He hesitated. “Did you talk to your therapist about it, at least?”

“I don’t need her permission,” Matt said testily.

“No, man, I know that, I mean—” Foggy cut himself off. “I’m just worried.”

Matt shrugged stiffly. “Sorry.”

“No, stop, _I’m_ sorry. It’s my problem, I think, and I just gotta deal with it.” He walked around the desk and came closer.

Matt tilted his head. “What’re you—”

“Hugging you.” And Foggy made good on his word, wrapping his arms around Matt.

“Um…why?”

“Because you got us some awesome evidence, obviously.” Foggy held him a little tighter. “And because I’m betting it wasn’t easy.”

Matt didn’t really know what to do other than accept the hug. _If_ there was something wrong (or reckless, or _whatever_ ) with telling Rachel so soon, then he could bring it up with his therapist. For now, he wanted to focus on using the limited time left before Geary’s deposition to make the most of her potential testimony.

Still, he let Foggy hug him a little longer. Just because.

~

The parents of Rachel’s friends were eager to help, sending Matt and Foggy almost too many documents—too many only because Geary’s deposition was scheduled for the day after the documents arrived, giving them little time to sort through everything. The parents had had records of events done with the church, picture taken at the church, texts between each other and friends about the church, and, finally, emails to and from the church about Geary’s behavior.

Given how little independent evidence they had, it was all absolutely crucial. They needed to go into Geary’s deposition with as much information as possible in the hopes that they could catch him in a lie or surprise him into admitting the truth. Now in addition to files from the criminal investigation and Samuel’s medical and psychological reports to corroborate Samuel’s story, they could also use communication with the church to pry into what was happening behind the scenes on the other side.

Matt and Foggy hurried to rework the questions they’d already prepared to include this new information. Depositions or examinations were typically organized into what lawyers called “chapters,” with each chapter designed to make a new point. Here, there were only two points that needed to be developed: Geary’s own behavior, and the negligent supervision of the church. But each point had multiple sub-chapters designed to flesh out the story.

Now Matt had his earbuds in his ear, listening to the latest draft of questions from start to finish. He was supposed to be paying attention to the big picture, making sure they hadn’t missed anything, making sure the questions made enough sense that they wouldn’t have to waste time clarifying while still saving some segments that they hoped would throw Geary off any rhythm he tried to find refuge in. But the more Matt listened, the more he imagined Geary’s potential response and all the ways the priest might try to wriggle out of the truth. His hands tightened into fists at his side as he imagined all the possible counterattacks, off-script ways to pin the priest down regardless.

Except he wasn’t going to be doing the questioning. Foggy was.

Finally, Matt listened to the last question, and his earbuds went silent. Pulling them out, he nodded once, tightly. “All right. Sounds good.”

Foggy was leaning against Matt’s desk, playing with a pen again. Tapping it against his leg like he was thinking about something else. “Yeah, cool,” he said. “So, uh…” He rubbed at the back of his neck. “I’m still doing this, right?”

“What?”

“I mean, I’m still questioning him.”

Matt squared his jaw. “Sure.”

Foggy took a deep breath. “Not gonna lie, you don’t look too convinced there, buddy.”

Matt sighed, deliberately relaxing his fingers. “Sorry. Yeah. I, uh…”

“You want a crack at him?”

Yes. Absolutely. Matt pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s not, like, some revenge thing, I swear. It’s just…” He trailed off.

Foggy’s head tilted. “I’m listening.”

“I’ll know what to look for,” Matt mumbled, feeling like that was an entirely inadequate explanation to justify taking the lead on something this big. Especially given how he’d handled the case so far.

But Foggy’s response was immediate and confident. “Sure thing.”

What? Matt narrowed his eyes. “Really?”

“Yeah, man. I mean, uh…I can go over everything we’ve gotten from Hannah and Samuel and everything from discovery until my eyes bleed, but I still…I still don’t know, you know…as much as you. I was kinda thinking that already, actually.”

Matt bit the inside of his cheek. “You’re not worried I won’t be able to handle it?”

“If you think you can handle it,” Foggy said calmly, “then I’m on board. I trust you.”

~

When a deponent was incarcerated, depositions often occurred virtually. But if they wanted to make use of Matt’s abilities, they had to be face-to-face.

Visiting prisons were complicated, for myriad reasons. They had to call ahead and make sure they were aware of all the particulars, down to dress code. Then they had to arrive over an hour early while they were processed. By the time they gave Matt his cane and bag back, he already had a headache.

Prisons were always loud, and today was no exception. The metal detectors blared in Matt’s ears, the heavy doors screeched as they slid open, and Matt tried not to flashback Fisk’s ambush. At least this was a different prison. State, not federal. He still winced at the cacophony now ringing in his ears, flicked his tongue to rid himself of the lingering taste of metal and stale soap and body odor.

A guard escorted the two of them to the right room. Matt held onto Foggy’s arm, keeping his cane folded up, until the guard stopped them outside a hall. “In there,” he said.

“Thanks,” Foggy said brightly.

Just as the guard was leaving, Matt’s phone started buzzing and chirping out a name. _Claire’s_ name. Raising his eyebrows, Matt pulled the phone from his pocket and angled it at Foggy. “What’d she say?” he asked, not wanting to blast the automated voice for all to hear, Matt angled the phone at Foggy.

“That, uh…she’s praying for you.”

Matt blinked. “What?”

Foggy shrugged. “About the deposition, I’m guessing.”

“I…didn’t tell her it was happening,” Matt said, a little dazed and maybe on the verge of overwhelmed.

“Oh,” Foggy said dumbly.

“Yeah.” Matt wet his lips, but couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t be too emotional.

“Okay.” Foggy suddenly plucked the phone from Matt’s hands, fingers tapped across the hard surface. “I’m thanking her for you, and telling her you’re gonna buy her coffee. Something stupidly expensive.”

Grinning a little, Matt inclined his head in acknowledgement. “That’s fair.” Retrieving the phone, he slipped it back into his pocket as Foggy opened the door and they stepped inside.

Geary wasn’t here yet, but the defense attorneys were, along with the court reporter and videographer. Matt had been so focused on priest, he’d almost forgotten he’d have to deal with the defense attorneys again. He felt himself stiffen up, heart beating faster in anticipation of their next move. He felt like prey in their presence.

No, that wasn’t okay. He told Foggy he could do this. He _had_ to be able to do this. He had to be perfectly, totally unaffected.

“Good evening,” Samantha Walker said, politely cheerful, as if she hadn’t caused their young client more trauma with her questions.

Matt answered before Foggy even got the chance, just to prove he could. “Evening. I take it you found your way in here okay? You don’t often have to take depositions in prison, do you?” She was a plaintiff’s defense attorney, after all.

“I’ll admit, this is a first,” she said, just as cheerfully.

Matt took a moment to enjoy silently hating her.

Foggy, meanwhile, perfectly matched her amicable tone. “Sorry, I’m confused. Are you saying this is your first time repping a child molester specifically, or just criminals in general?”

Matt dearly wished he could see her face.

“Well,” she said, voice soft but poisonous, “aren’t you feisty. Just make sure you reign it in when you’re questioning my client, Nelson, or I’ll make you regret it.”

“Oh,” Foggy laughed, “that won’t be me. That’ll be Matt. And good luck catching him making a mistake that’ll actually justify involving a judge.”

Matt couldn’t help standing up a little straighter at the utter confidence in Foggy’s voice.

Walker set one hand on her hip. “Mr. Murdock, of course. I hope you’re feeling better? My client won’t appreciate you running out of the room like you did last time.”

The faux sympathy in her tone made Matt’s stomach clench, but he kept his voice low and calm. “No, I don’t think he’ll appreciate any part of this.”

Before Walker could come up with a response to that, the door opened. A guard entered with Geary in tow. The old man was hunched over, heart already racing, and the cast on his leg _thunked_ heavily against the ground with each limping step he took.

“Geeze,” Foggy whispered under his breath, sounding viciously delighted. “He looks like someone shoved him through a meat grinder.”

Matt allowed himself a smirk.

The guard settled the priest in the chair, and Matt couldn’t say for certain, obviously, but…it felt like he knew the exact moment that Geary’s eyes landed on him. The room went cold. He felt suddenly small. Young. Vulnerable.

Then Foggy’s hand settled, large and warm, on Matt’s shoulder, and when he spoke, his voice was too quiet for anyone else to hear. “Focus, buddy. Here and now, right?”

Matt swallowed. He nodded. He could do this.

Like with Samuel’s deposition, the preliminaries had already been taken care of. The videographer announced that he’d started running the video, naming the date, time, and purpose of the deposition. The lawyers introduced themselves again for the video record. The priest raised his right hand and was sworn in.

The defense attorneys had elected not to depose their own witness. Matt hoped that meant they didn’t trust Geary not to make a mistake. But from where Matt was sitting, the priest seemed almost inhuman, imperturbable. The surface injuries Matt had given him were inconsequential compared to the icy core of a man who’d willingly chosen evil so many times that his heart was now sealed in stone.

Matt cleared his throat. “Let’s begin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2 Corinthians 8:21 ~ "For we aim at what is honorable not only in the Lord’s sight but also in the sight of man."
> 
> Hi, I'm a disaster of a human being, and I realized this is gonna be 35 chapters. Most likely. I intentionally waited to estimate because I wanted to be confident, but I still guessed wrong, dang it.
> 
> Anyway. In other news, the next chapter might take a bit longer because it's Geary's deposition and I really want to do it justice, so please bear with me. <3


	32. Psalm 9:16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends, thank you for your patience with this chapter! So...I quickly realized as I was writing the deposition that one chapter would not be enough, so although I wouldn't call this a cliffhanger per se, the deposition scene itself has more to come. The next chapter is virtually finished already, though, so you can expect a much shorter wait. :)
> 
> Warnings for...just all-around dark, twisted stuff. As you'd expect.

This deposition was never going to be easy. Sexual assault cases were generally “he said, she said,” with little to no evidence besides the testimony of the victim and the perpetrator. Hardly enough to prove a case beyond a reasonable doubt. Rarely enough to prove it by a preponderance of the evidence.

This case was more complicated, with more layers, more hierarchies, and more people involved. But there was still no direct evidence. No DNA preserved from Samuel’s visit to the hospital, no footage of any incidents, no damning emails between Geary and anyone else. If they were at the trial stage, and Matt were giving the closing argument, he’d have to invest significant time lowering the jury’s expectations before even getting to his points. They should not expect a flashy victory of the kind they might see on TV. They’d have to use their own common sense in judgement to weigh the testimony, sift through the conflicting accounts, and uncover the truth from the tangled mess of lies.

With any luck, this deposition would help. The best-case scenario was that Matt could catch him in a lie here, get it on record, punch a hole straight through his credibility as a witness. Less ideal but still useful would be to commit Geary down to certain answers now, and use those answers to build traps for him if he took the stand at trial.

And Geary’s lawyer knew that as well as Matt. She would’ve instructed him carefully on how to deny what he thought Matt and Foggy couldn’t prove, and otherwise keep his answers vague or else fall back on _I don’t know_.

One thing was certain: Matt could not afford to let up today. Nor could he afford to miss anything.

He sensed Foggy’s warm presence next to him as he folded his hands on the table. “Father Geary, you understand that you are under oath, and the answers you give today are being recorded, both by transcription and videotape?”

“Yes,” the priest said. His voice was old, thin (and all too similar to Father Sheridan’s). His heart beat more rapidly than anyone else’s in the room, but still far slower than it had when Matt broke into his home. He was nervous, but only mildly. Not scared. And his outward demeanor remained utterly calm.

“Did you read any materials in preparation for your deposition today?” Matt asked.

“Yes. With my attorney.”

“What materials?”

Geary listed off the documents. Emails and memos sent within the church, policy statements, some training materials. (Foggy wrote it all down on a pad of paper.)

Matt nodded. “Now, Father, I want to start with getting some background information on you. You’ve been a priest for fifty-two years, correct?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve spent thirty-six years at St. Mark’s?”

Geary gave no indication of surprise at the mention of St. Mark’s. Naturally, his lawyer would have told him that Matt and Foggy asked for information about Geary’s history during earlier parts of discovery. “Yes,” he answered.

“And you’ve spent sixteen years at St. Matthew’s?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“You’ve always been under the authority of the archbishop?” Matt asked. They’d get to questions pertaining to the abuse later; he wanted to start with laying foundation as to the authority of the church over Geary. These questions would go to the church’s liability, and could potentially be used when they deposed the archbishop later. Of more immediate importance was the fact that these questions might also set Geary at ease, make him more likely to make a mistake when Matt hit him with the harder questions.

“Yes.”

“You’re still under the authority of the archbishop?”

“Yes.”

“Were you ever given any kind of evaluation by the archdiocese?”

“Yes,” he said confidently. “Every five years or so, I’d say.”

Both St. Matthew’s and St. Mark’s had sent over the results of these evaluations. They showed no sign that anything was wrong with Father Geary. “To your knowledge, did these evaluations ever affect how you were permitted to continue serving as a priest?”

“No, I kept serving as I always had.”

“Did the archbishop or anyone else in authority over you ever ask about your interactions with children?”

Geary took a moment, apparently to think about the best answer to give. “Well, I mean…generally, yes. We’d periodically talk about the children I was counseling, of course, just to make sure the children were getting the proper care.”

“Did the archbishop or anyone else in authority over you ever ask about your sexual conduct towards children?”

Geary sat up a little straighter, gave a little huff of indignation. “No. There was nothing to ask about.”

“Did the archbishop or anyone else in authority over you ever restrict you from working with children?”

“No.”

“Were you ever restricted from being around children in general?”

“No, never.” Then he added: “Well, until recently, when I pled guilty.”

“We’ll get to that later,” Matt said flatly. “What I want to know is, did anyone representing the Catholic church ever restrict you from being around children prior to your arrest and plea deal?”

“No.”

“Was the archbishop the one who gave you your new assignment at St. Matthew’s?”

“Yes.”

“During that conversation, did he mention any complaints made against you regarding your behavior with children?”

“No.”

“Did the archbishop ever, at any point, discuss complaints made against you concerning your behavior with children?”

“No. There were none.”

Oh, that was good, that was very good. “None?”

“None,” Geary confirmed, sounding even more indignant that Matt appeared not to believe him.

“What was the reason given for your transfer to St. Matthew’s?” Matt asked.

“We all felt that God was calling me there.”

Matt narrowed his eyes behind his glasses. “That simple?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Do you know what the parishioners at St. Matthew’s were told about why you were coming to be a priest there?”

“The same thing. It was God’s will. As we understood it.”

“Do you know what the rest of the staff at St. Matthew’s were told?”

“The same thing, I believe.”

“I’m curious: when you came to St. Matthew’s, did you take it upon yourself to change anything about how you interacted with children? Or did you continue doing the same things you did with them at St. Mark’s?”

“I…there was no need to change anything. I wasn’t doing anything wrong.”

“That being said, assignments are usually made in the summer, aren’t they?”

“Well, yes.”

“And yet this assignment was made in the fall?”

“…I believe so, yes. It was a long time ago, but…yes, I think so.”

Good; Matt could circle back to that later. For now, he changed topics. “I want to talk about your interactions with law enforcement. Have you ever been interviewed by law enforcement concerning your involvement with children?”

The priest paused. He must’ve known these questions were coming, but maybe he hadn’t expected hem so early in the deposition. “Um…uh-huh,” he mumbled.

Matt raised his eyebrows. “Our court reporter can’t record unless you give a clear yes or no, so that’s what I’ll need from you.”

Geary cleared his throat. “Of course. Uh…yes, I have been…interviewed…by law enforcement.”

“About children?” Matt pressed.

“Yes.”

“When?”

He gave the date.

Matt slid a sheet of paper across the table. “For the record,” he said, “I’m giving the witness a piece of paper with another name written. Father Geary, this is the name of the plaintiff in this case. The name of this witness is, by stipulation, under a complete seal, so out loud, we’ll be referring to him as John Doe. Tell me, do you recognize his name?”

Geary swallowed as he read Samuel’s name. “Yes.”

“Were you interviewed in connection with John Doe?”

“Yes. I believe his mother was the one who went to the police.”

“During that interview with police, you denied ever behaving inappropriately with children.”

“Yes.”

“You also denied ever keeping or viewing pornographic videos of children.”

Geary fiddled with the collar of his jumpsuit for a second before answering. “Yes, that’s…that’s what I told them.”

“But you were lying about keeping and viewing child porn, weren’t you?”

“I, um…”

A long silence stretched out.

Matt gritted his teeth. “Yes or no, please.”

“Well, yes,” the priest admitted heavily. “But—but that was because they were asking about Sam—”

“Don’t say his name.”

“John Doe,” Geary amended. “They were asking about John Doe, but the videos, they—they had nothing to do with that. With him.”

Matt had plans to ask more questions about these videos eventually, but he didn’t want to linger too long now. He wanted Geary to think he’d successfully dodged the worst questions. “You were eventually arrested, correct?”

And sure enough, the priest sounded relieved. “Yes.”

“You pled guilty to possession of child pornography and luring a child.”

“It was an Alford plea,” Geary corrected (and his lawyer winced). “I didn’t do it.”

“Sorry, you _didn’t_ possess child pornography?”

“No, I—I did, but I didn’t—I never lured a child or did any of that.”

In her chair, Walker was tense as a taught string as her client’s attempt at finding himself a loophole turned out to be more like a noose.

But Matt was doing his best to keep his attention on the priest. “So you made an Alford plea, insisting that you were factually innocent, even though you knew you were factually guilty on at least one count?”

“My lawyer told me to,” Geary mumbled.

Matt tilted his head. He was utterly unsurprised that Geary would try to shield himself by shifting the blame to someone else, but seeing it confirmed was very helpful given that Geary was not the only defendant in this case. “Nevertheless, you still maintain that you are not factually guilty of luring a child?”

Geary composed himself. “Yes. I never did that.”

“And yet you’re serving two years in jail, and you have five years on probation to look forward to after that.”

“Yes.”

“And when you finish serving your time, and when you finish your years of probation, will you still be acting as a priest?”

Geary rubbed at the back of his neck. “I…no.”

“Tell me, have you ever been interviewed by a psychologist, either as part of your training and evaluation as a priest, or as part of your legal defense?”

“No, I have not.”

Matt and Foggy were considering asking for a forensic psychological examination, depending primarily on the cost. For now, though, Matt moved on to a new line of questioning. “I want to talk to you about your understanding of these issues as a priest. First, are you aware that, according to the canon of the church, it is a crime for a priest to solicit sex in a confessional?”

Geary made an affronted noise. “Yes, of course I’m aware.”

“Is there anything a child could do to deserve to be touched sexually by their priest?”

“Of course not,” Geary said immediately (but his head gave a slight nod even as he said the words).

“If a priest had sex with a child, would the child be in sin?”

“Objection, relevance,” Geary’s lawyer cut in, sounding confused and annoyed and, beneath that, worried about where these questions might lead, about what Geary might say.

Matt ignored her. “Answer the question.” The objection could be reviewed later, but this was not a trial examination. They didn’t need a ruling before Geary could answer.

The priest rubbed his thumb back and forth over his bony knuckles. “It would depend on the child’s heart.”

Foggy breathed heavily through his nose. (Angry? Disgusted? A mix of both? Matt couldn’t tell for sure.)

Matt clenched his jaw. “How so?”

“Well, it would depend on whether the child wanted it.”

“All right,” Matt said coldly. “Let’s examine this more thoroughly. If, for example, a child did _not_ want it, would the child be in sin?”

“…No.”

“But the priest would be in sin, correct?”

Walker exhaled harshly. “Again, objection, relevance? This isn’t a theological discussion.”

“Your objection is noted,” Matt snapped, keeping his focus on Geary.

“Well, I preserve my objection,” she snapped back.

Matt opened his mouth.

“Easy,” Foggy whispered, too quietly for anyone but Matt to hear.

Matt briefly closed his eyes. “As I said, your objection is noted. Father, answer the question.”

Geary took a second, as if hopeful his lawyer would keep stalling for him. When Walker said nothing, he slowly said, “The…the priest would probably be in sin, I think.”

“What do you mean, _probably?_ ”

Warmth rose in Geary’s neck as he flushed. “It’s not an issue I’ve personally researched. I won’t take a position either way.”

“Fine.” Matt’s voice softened, a poisoned blade under an unassuming blanket. “Let’s talk about if the child did want it, then. Would the child be in sin?”

“Of course,” Geary answered promptly.

“What about the age of reason?” Matt demanded.

Geary’s voice took on a professorial air. “Well, Matthew—”

Matt stiffened. “Don’t call me Matthew.”

The priest sniffed delicately. “As I was saying, the age of reason is seven. So any child over that age would be morally responsible for any perverse desires.”

“To be clear, you’re saying that a child as young as eight years old would be morally responsible if they asked for sex?”

“Yes,” Geary said calmly.

Of course he couldn’t _take a position_ on the point at which a priest would be morally responsible, but had no problem condemning any child over the age of _seven_. Under the table, Matt dug his nails into his palms, but kept his voice even. “Anyone who works at your church is required to receive child protection training, correct?” It was the official policy, according to the documents St. Matthews turned over.

“Yes.”

“And so of course you’re aware that children generally do not want sex unless they have been exposed to something sexual?”

“…Yes.”

“A child wanting sex is, in fact, a sign that something inappropriate has happened to the child, isn’t it?”

“You could say that.”

“It’s not about what I could say,” Matt corrected testily, “it’s about what you would say. Answer the question with a yes or a no.”

“Yes, all right.”

“A child wanting sex is a sign that the child needs help, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“If a child came to you wanting sex, you would provide help, wouldn’t you?” That was a softball question, vague and easy.

“Of course I would,” Geary answered immediately.

But now Matt got more specific. “You would investigate whether abuse occurred?”

The church’s lawyers tensed, no doubt sure that whatever Geary was about to say could backfire on them even if it defended him. (And Foggy was still taking notes.)

Geary hesitated. “Yes.”

“You would report any abuse you found.”

“Yes.”

“To the police?” Matt checked. “Or just to the authorities in the church?”

“To…both.”

“You would talk to the parents, if appropriate.”

“Yes. Well, only if appropriate. You never know with parents. Sometimes they’re even involved, I’ve seen it plenty of times.”

Matt refused to get sidetracked. “You would talk to the children’s teachers at the church.”

“Yes. Again, depending on the situation.”

“Are there guidelines for how it might _depend on the situation_ , or is it up to you to figure it out?”

“I would…make the best decision I could.”

Matt allowed himself a tiny smile. The church’s lawyers couldn’t be happy to hear that. “And you would not allow yourself to be alone with a child who was soliciting you for sex.”

“I…it would depend on the situation.”

“How so?” Matt demanded.

“I don’t know.”

“Why don’t you know? Is this a hypothetical situation? Are you saying no child has ever solicited you for sex?”

Geary started breathing tight like he was secretly panicking, clinging to his silence like it could shield him from justice. (He didn’t need silence for that when he had the _church_.)

Under the table, Matt curled his hands into fists. “Did you not understand the question? I can use smaller words, if you need.”

“Objection,” Walker hissed, making up for her lack of substance with bluster.

Matt ignored her. “Father Geary, answer the question.”

“…No child has ever solicited me for sex,” Geary said finally, heavily.

Matt was too angry to even enjoy the satisfaction of getting a clear answer, especially to such a crucial question. He pivoted. “Tell me, is it common practice for a priest to touch a child in a confessional?”

“No. Confession is supposed to be private.”

Matt hurried on, not giving Geary time to catch his breath. “Before coming to St. Matthew’s, you were the priest at St. Mark’s, weren’t you? You already admitted to that?”

Geary tensed. So did his lawyer, and so especially did St. Matthew’s lawyers. They no doubt wondered why Matt would return to discussing St. Mark’s again. “Yes.”

It was crucial that he sell this part of the deposition: no doubt Geary knew how little information St. Matthew’s actually gave Matt and Foggy; his lawyer had probably explained that even less of the evidence Matt and Foggy got from the church was actually admissible. He might feel like that gave him room to lie today. But not if he thought Matt and Foggy had gotten damning information from St. Mark’s.

“Now, Father, you testified earlier that there were no complaints made at St. Mark’s about you.”

Geary faltered. “Well…none that I remember.”

Matt slid another piece of paper across to him. “There’s a name written on this piece of paper, the name of a young woman who claims that you abused her as a child. Do not say the name out loud. She has given us permission to use her name if needed, but for now her name is also under a seal according to stipulation, and so we’ll refer to her out loud as Jane Doe. I’m handing you a paper with her real name written on it. Tell me, do you recognize her name?”

For a long time, Geary just stared at Rachel’s name.

“Father?” Matt prompted curtly.

Geary swallowed hard. “Yes. Yes, I…I recognize it.”

“She attended St. Mark’s as a child, didn’t she?”

“I…I think so, yes.”

“She took confession with you.”

“Yes.”

“Now, Father, we’ve spoken with Jane Doe, and she told us that her friend’s parents wrote a letter to the church informing them that you had touched her inappropriately. Do you deny it?”

“Do I…deny which part?” the priest asked nervously. “The…touching her inappropriately, or…or whether a letter was written?’

“Are you aware that a letter was written?”

“I don’t really remember, it was so long ago.”

“Did you ever personally speak with the parents of Jane Doe’s friends?”

“I…I think I remember that, yes.”

“They told you that they’d written the letter, didn’t they?”

“I…yes, probably. I’m sure I told them there was nothing to worry about.”

“So, to clarify,” Matt began coldly, “they told you that they wrote a letter to the church complaining about your behavior towards this little girl?”

“Yes.”

“So when you told us earlier that you didn’t remember any complaints made against you while you were a priest at St. Mark’s, that was a lie.”

“No,” Geary said quickly. “Oh, no, it was just…it was so long ago. I forgot.”

“You forgot,” Matt repeated, soft and dangerous. “Is this because receiving complaints that you behaved inappropriately with children is such a common occurrence that it’s unremarkable to you?”

“No, not at all, I just…” Geary trailed off, as if hoping for someone else to intervene. No one said anything. The room was quiet. Finally, he said weakly, “It was a long time ago.”

Matt gave a small, knowing, deadly smile. “Tell you what, I’ll give you a chance to be more forthcoming. Tell us how many other complaints were made about you while you were at St. Mark’s.”

Geary’s heart beat faster. His head turned as he glanced at his attorney, but he received no direction. And there was no way for him to know for sure whether Matt was bluffing, whether Matt already knew about other complaints in addition to Rachel’s. He squirmed in his chair and coughed and stalled until, finally, he said: “Three.”

 _Three?_ Matt carefully gave no sign of surprise. “Tell us what these complaints alleged.”

“That I, ah…may have behaved inappropriately…with certain children. I’m remembering now, I didn’t before. I’m not lying, I just forgot.”

Matt slid another piece of paper across to him, and a pen. “Let the record reflect that I have handed Father Geary a piece of paper and a pen. Father, you’re going to write down the names of the children involved in these complaints.”

“Their…their names?”

“Yes,” Matt said coolly. “Don’t say them out loud, but write them down. Let me know when you’re done.”

There was a pause. Then he heard Geary pick up the pen in his wrinkled hand (both his hand and the pen were shaking) and slowly write. He paused again. “It’s, uh…hard to remember.”

“I’ll wait.”

Finally, Geary set the pen down. Foggy reached across to take the paper back.

“Did you make any settlements with any of these children?” Matt asked. “Or with their families?”

“No. But, um, I wrote a letter of apology to…to one of the families.”

Did he? That was good to know. Foggy slid the paper back across to Geary in time for Matt to instruct the priest to circle the name of the family. Then Foggy retrieved the paper again.

“What exactly were you apologizing for?” Matt asked.

Geary gave a small, fake, awkward laugh. “There was a misunderstanding. I was apologizing for any distress they might have felt as a result of it.”

“Was it your idea to write the letter?”

“No, ah…I was told to write it by the bishop.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, I don’t remember. It was a long time ago.”

“Did it have anything to do with a concern that the family might go to the police?”

“I’m lodging another objection,” Walker said. “The witness already said he doesn’t know why he was told to write the letter.”

“Answer the question,” Matt ordered.

Geary shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Did it have anything to do with a concern that the family might go public?”

“I don’t know.”

“Fine. Let’s take a step back. You said there were three complaints, correct? What exactly did these complaints allege that you did? Be specific.”

Geary’s head turned towards his lawyer again. “I, uh…I don’t exactly remember.”

“Because these types of complaints were so commonplace?” Matt asked again.

Heat rose higher in Geary’s face. “Of course not. But it was years ago. Like I keep saying.”

Matt cleared his throat. “Let’s go back to Jane Doe. Do you remember what she alleged that you did to her?”

“No, no, I don’t remember.” His heart tripped in his chest.

“You don’t remember anything specific that her friend’s parents said?”

“No, not…not really. I just remember that we talked, I don’t remember anything…specific.”

“Do personally remember doing anything sexual to her?”

“…No.”

Lying coward. “You don’t remember touching her in a public theater?”

“Objection,” Walker finally burst out. “My client has said he doesn’t remember. If this is nothing but a fishing expedition—”

Matt whipped around to face her. “It’s not. We have a good faith belief that this man abused Jane Doe when she was twelve years old. He touched her inappropriately in that theater, and he proceeded to abuse her in the confessional once a week. He gave her gifts to buy her silence, and he threatened her with damnation if she told anyone or stopped coming to him. If he doesn’t remember, that’s no problem for us, but we’re curious to know if he has a different explanation for what happened.”

When he was finished, his voice echoed through the room, accompanied only by the _click-clacking_ of the court reporter’s fingers on the keys.

Walker gripped a pen tightly in hand. “Fine,” she said, voice brittle. “Ask your questions.”

And so Matt walked Geary through each and every one of Rachel’s allegations. He denied them all, except for giving her gifts. He hesitated there, clearly worried that she might still have some of those gifts as well as some way to tie them to him, like a signed card or something. (She didn’t; she’d thrown it all away long ago.) He finally admitted to giving her gifts, but denied that it was an attempt to buy her silence.

“Now, Father,” Matt said, “this conversation with these parents took place in the fall, didn’t it?”

“I think so. That sounds right.”

“This would be the same fall when you were given your new assignment to St. Matthew’s.”

“I believe so, yes. But they weren’t related.”

“You did testify earlier that assignments are usually made in the summer?”

Geary was sweating; he’d figured out where Matt was going with this. “…Yes, that’s true.”

“And yet it’s still your testimony that your assignment to St. Matthew’s had no connection to the complaint made by Jane Doe’s friend’s parents?”

“I already told you why the assignment was made. So yes, that’s still my testimony.”

Matt took a moment to convey his disbelief with his silence. Then: “To your knowledge, were the parishioners at St. Matthew’s told of the complaints made against you at St. Mark’s?”

“No. I mean, I don’t know.”

“Did anyone tell the staff at St. Matthew’s about these complaints?”

“I don’t know, I couldn’t tell you.”

Matt nodded. They’d covered Rachel’s story enough now, and now Geary was rattled. “I want to go back and talk more about John Doe, the child whose mother called the police about how you were abusing her son. You knew John Doe at St. Matthew’s, not St. Mark’s, correct?”

There was an ominous pause as Geary froze for a second. Then the priest coughed. “Yes, that’s right.”

“You took it upon yourself to reach out to his mother.”

“I was concerned about the family, yes.”

“You brought them extra food.”

The priest’s voice took on a newfound earnest quality, no doubt relieved that these questions were painting him in a more positive light. “Yes, I tried to, you know, lighten the mother’s load. She seemed very burdened.”

“You asked the child to take confession with you.”

“Well, yes, that’s…what a priest does.”

“How many days a week, on average, did you meet with John Doe?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Geary said. “Maybe four or five days.”

That lined up with Samuel’s testimony. It was a small consistency, but still. “Were you surprised to learn that John Doe and his mother were accusing you of sexually abusing him?”

“Of course I was.”

“Did you buy John Doe gifts, like you bought them for Jane Doe?”

“Well…not the same kinds of gifts, obviously, but, yes, I tried to make him feel cared for.”

“You bought him cigarettes—”

“No, of course not.”

“You used these gifts to earn his affection.”

“No, they were just gifts.”

Matt raised his voice. “You used these gifts to manipulate him so you could touch him sexually.”

“ _No_ , I never—”

“I think it’s time for a break,” Walker cut in. “Father?”

Geary sank back in his chair like a puppet with its strings cut. “Yes. I would appreciate that, thank you.”

Walker was the first to stand. “Give us the room, please.”

Matt took a deep breath. He noticed that his hands, still clenched under the table, were shaking.

“Buddy?” Foggy whispered.

Matt just nodded curtly. His chair scraped against the floor as he pushed it back to stand up. Everyone else—the court reporter, the videographer, and the church’s lawyers—filed out of the room. Matt left with Foggy, and he must’ve been imagining it, but he thought he could feel Geary’s eyes burning into him until the door shut between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Psalm 9:16 ~ "The LORD is known by his acts of justice; the wicked are ensnared by the work of their hands."
> 
> So I've spent the last week or so researching depositions, and I drew heavily from this 2.5-hour youtube video of a priest's deposition: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rrcPy4pZtgM. I'm sharing it partly because I learned so much from it in general that it's only fair to credit it, and partly because there are a few parts I quoted directly (mostly in the next chapter, though; the most chilling, awful, evil things are direct quotes). This comes with some obvious warnings. Please don't watch the video unless you're in a safe mental state to do so.


	33. Psalm 94

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I'm sorry: this chapter is freakishly long. But I wanted to begin and end with some scenes that are marginally more lighthearted.
> 
> WARNING: this is the second half of the deposition and it gets a lot more intense. And more explicit. I want to give specific warnings for which sections are the worst, but, like...it's all bad? So I'll just include a note at the end that outlines the main points in case people want to skip the chapter but still know what was accomplished. If you want to skip, you can stop when Matt and Foggy go back into the room, and then jump down to the little ~ and start reading again at "it was over."

Foggy led Matt down a hallway, away from the others, somewhere relatively private. Matt tugged his tie loose, taking a few deep breaths of air that was slightly less stale, clenching and unclenching his hands as the noises of the prison swept in, noises he’d been blocking out as he focused entirely on Geary, clanking and clamoring and distant cursing that now contributed to the headache blooming behind his eyes. 

(It didn’t help that he was straining to parse out Walker’s voice as she talked with Geary. He shouldn’t, it was unfair and unethical, but he couldn’t help it. And every word she said made him grind his teeth together. How dare she accuse _him_ of coaching?)

“You okay?” Foggy asked.

“Walker’s telling Geary to redirect all his answers back to the church. Insist no one told him anything he was doing was wrong, or even say they told him it was okay.” Not that Geary wasn’t close to doing that on his own anyway; he’d clearly blame anyone but himself for all this.

“Shit,” Foggy said. “But…that’s not really what I’m asking.”

Matt sighed. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

Matt just nodded tightly, well aware that he didn’t know if he was lying as he did. But that was the point: he couldn’t afford to know, because he couldn’t afford to acknowledge it if he _wasn’t_ fine, because if there was a way to do that without completely spiraling, he didn’t know it.

(He should ask Dr. Dorner about that, or ask if avoidance was _always_ bad. It had to be appropriate sometimes, right? Like now?)

Foggy, at least, didn’t try to push. “Well, Geary looks like a lying creep, for the record. And you know what gets me the most? He’s so _calm_. You know how furious I’d be if someone were asking _me_ these questions? And he’s just sitting there like it’s a…a _mild inconvenience_.”

“He’s scared,” Matt said quietly. “You should hear his heart.”

“Well, his face is like a blank mask. I hate it.”

Matt shrugged.

Foggy softened his voice. “You’re doing great in there, by the way.”

“I know.” And he did. There were plenty of things they knew Geary would never admit to, but Matt was so far getting Geary to say everything they’d hoped he would say, with a few good surprises thrown in. Matt just wasn’t happy to be taking a break. He needed to keep going, needed to see this through, needed to not give himself time to think about—about— “Say something,” he said.

“What?”

“Say something. I need to keep focus, and if I just—if I’m just _thinking_ about it—”

“Cool,” Foggy said immediately. “Yeah, I get it.” And he launched into a vicious and detailed diatribe about how terrible Samantha Walker’s hair looked today. It was petty and irrelevant, but it was something to focus on. And if Foggy was at all concerned that his partner was so unstable as to need this kind of distraction from his own thoughts, he didn’t show it.

After a good five minutes or so, Matt tilted his head. “They’re done. Everyone else is going back in. Someone will be coming to get us.”

“Not if we waltz back in there like we own the place first.”

“I think I’ll leave the waltzing to you.”

“Probably for the best,” Foggy said sincerely. “I don’t actually think there’s a human alive who could handle both of us waltzing at the same time. Best not to actually kill Geary before Hannah and Samuel get damages.”

Matt was too wound up to laugh, but he snorted as he turned back towards the room.

“Hold up.” Foggy stopped him with a gentle hand on his arm, turned him around, and tightened his tie again, fussing with it for a moment, until: “There. Perfect.”

Matt swallowed against the sudden lump in his throat at the memory of his dad doing this for him before church on Sunday mornings.

“Aw, man, don’t look at me like that.” Foggy nudged him down the hallway. “Go be a shark.”

“Thought you hated sharks.” Matt was relieved when his voice sounded normal.

“Not when it’s you. And, uh…not when it’s against _him_.”

Foggy led him back into the room. They were the last to arrive, which meant Matt didn’t have to waste a single second.

He gave Geary no time to warm up again as he launched back into the deposition, shooting questions too fast for the priest to have time to think. “If Jane Doe didn’t solicit you for sex, that means you solicited her for sex, correct?”

And yet the priest didn’t miss a beat. “The church—”

“I’m not asking about the church.” There was some value, occasionally, in letting a witness talk, letting them hang themselves with their own words. And Matt certainly planned to take full advantage of Geary’s determination to pin the fault on someone else. But not yet, and not by letting Geary slither out of answering these questions. “You solicited Jane Doe for sex, didn’t you?”

“The archbishop—”

“Listen to me carefully,” Matt cut in. “It’s really very simple: these questions are designed to be answered with a yes or a no. I’m sure you can handle that.”

For the first time, there was a spark of anger in Geary’s voice. “I’m just trying to explain.”

“You can explain yourself later. First answer my questions. Did you solicit Jane Doe for sex, yes or no?”

“No,” Geary growled. “She’s lying.”

“Did solicit John Doe for sex?”

“No,” Geary hissed. “Of course not.”

“You touched John Doe in the confessional, correct?”

“Objection,” Walker interrupted. “By statute and church canon law, a priest such as Father Geary cannot reveal what happens in a confession, so I’m instructing the witness not to answer the question.”

“Fine,” Matt said. “I’ll rephrase. Father Geary, at any point in your relationship with John Doe, did you touch him sexually?”

“No.”

“John Doe alleges that you touched his genitals, causing him to have his first orgasm. Do you deny it?”

The priest reacted with—not _anger_ , but a hint of _excitement_. Something that, if given time to develop, could become arousal. (Matt wanted to throw up.) But his voice was emotionless as he simply said, “Yes.”

Matt had to keep focus. “And you already testified that you touched Jane Doe.”

“No. I mean, yes, but…not sexually.” (He was less excited now. Why, because he remembered where he was and what was at stake? Or just because the memories of Rachel were older?)

“She also alleges that you caused her to have her first orgasm. Do you deny that?”

“Yes.” There was no indignation, no fury. He might as well have been talking about the weather.

“John Doe alleges that, each time after you touched him, you warned him not to tell anyone what happened. Do you remember that?”

“I never touched him. I mean, not like that. And I never told him not to say anything about…about anything.”

“You didn’t tell him he’d go to hell for telling people what you were doing to him?”

“No.”

“You didn’t tell him his mother might be in danger if he talked?”

“No, I didn’t.”

Matt moved on, firing off another question. “You touched other children from St. Mark’s in the confessional, didn’t you?”

“Well, yes, but not—”

“Objection,” Walker burst out, a second too late.

“The witness already answered,” Matt countered. “He admitted to touching children in the confessional, and opened the door for further questioning. You can take it up with the judge later to get the testimony redacted if the judge agrees with you.”

Walker practically vibrated with anger. Matt wasn’t sure if she was more furious with him or with her client.

As for Matt, he’d rather the testimony not get redacted, but he was more interested in rattling Geary so he’d be more vulnerable for the questions that were still to come. “So you touched other children from St. Mark’s in the confessional?” he asked.

Geary shifted his weight. “…Yes, but not sexually.”

“Didn’t you tell us earlier that confession is supposed to be private?”

“Well, yes, it is.”

“Isn’t confession also supposed to be anonymous?”

“Yes.”

“And so you’d agree that touching children in the confessional, as you just said you did, is abnormal?”

“Well, yes.”

“Did you touch children from St. Matthew’s in the confessional?”

“No.” 

“Oh, so you decided when you moved from St. Mark’s to St. Matthew’s that maybe you should stop touching children?”

“I…ah…” Geary rubbed at his forehead. “Sorry, I’m getting tired.”

Matt curled his lip. “And yet you still need to answer the question.”

“Ah,” Geary said. “No, it wasn’t a _decision_. Actually, the archbishop—”

“You took John Doe out of state.” Shifting so suddenly between topics was not always a good idea; a confused witness could just muddle the transcript. But Matt didn’t want to give Geary the chance to start blaming the church.

“Ah—yes.”

“You took John Doe out of state without asking his mother.”

“No, no, I asked his mother.”

“You asked his mother before you took John Doe out of state, or after?” They had the texts to prove the timeline.

“Uh—after.”

“You did not get her permission to take John Doe out of state?”

“I didn’t talk to her first, no.”

“You took him to hotels.”

“Yes—no.”

“Yes?”

“No.”

“You brought John Doe up to your office.” (Matt did not think about the narrow staircase up to Sheridan’s office above the chapel. He _did not_.)

“Yes,” Geary admitted.

“You touched him in your office.”

“No.”

“Did John Doe ever get an erection in your presence?”

“No. Not—not that I remember, anyway.”

Matt raised his eyebrows. “Did you ever worry that you would be arrested for what you were doing with John Doe, or Jane Doe, or any of the other children?”

Guilt and fear were hard to hide, and whatever Geary was remembering now triggered both in him. “No, I—I wasn’t doing anything wrong.”

“Tell me, did Jane Doe ever solicit you for sex?”

“Objection,” Walker said. “Asked and answered—the witness already said no child ever solicited him for sex.”

“Clarify for us, Father. Is it your testimony today that Jane Doe ever solicited you for sex?”

“No.”

“Did John Doe?”

“No.”

“If they had, you would have taken that as a warning sign that they may have been abused, like you said earlier.”

“Well…yes.”

“If they had solicited you for sex, then, there’d be evidence that the church looked into whether they were being abused, correct?”

“Yes, but they didn’t solicit me for sex, so there’s no evidence.”

“And since they didn’t solicit you for sex, any sexual activity that occurred must have been your idea?”

“I’ve told you again and again, nothing sexual happened.”

“They’re both lying, then?”

Geary shrugged. “They must be. Maybe they’ve even talked about it together, I don’t know.”

Matt peeled his lips back from his teeth in a false smile. “A conspiracy, is it?”

“I don’t know what it is. But we…we were given training, in seminary, about how to avoid false accusations of molestation.”

Walker tensed.

Matt cocked his head at this new information. “Really? What did that training involve?”

Geary seemed to realize he shouldn’t have said that. “I don’t…I don’t recall all of the particulars,” he stammered, and stumbled on, trying to explain himself. “It’s just, you know…in this day and age, people are so quick to accuse priests—we’re very vulnerable to such accusations—people love to hate organized religion, they’ll take any excuse—”

Walker cleared her throat loudly, and Geary took the cue to stop talking.

Foggy nudged Matt’s leg with his knee, but Matt just gritted his teeth and carefully didn’t comment on her behavior lest she took it as an opportunity to derail things. He refocused on the priest. “Did that training involve instruction not to spend time one-on-one with children outside of confession?”

“No. No, I don’t think so.”

“Did that training involve instruction not to take children one-on-one out of state without their parents’ permission?”

Geary fidgeted. “I don’t remember.”

“Why not? Was training not continual? Did they not make sure to keep your memory refreshed on the standards?”

“Objection,” Walker mumbled. “Compound—compound question.”

“How often were you trained?” Matt demanded.

“Every three years.”

“When was the last training?”

“It must’ve been…a little over a year ago, probably.”

“And yet you can’t remember what that training involved?” Matt let his incredulity be evident in his voice.

“I don’t think they talked to us about taking children out of state.”

“Why not?” Matt asked sardonically. “Because it’s so inherently dangerous of an idea that they didn’t think they should even have to warn you not to do it?”

Geary was flushing again. “I don’t know,” he spat.

Matt pivoted. “How many other children have you touched sexually?”

“None. I mean, I’ve—I’ve given hugs, but…”

“How many times have you touched a child in a sexual place, such as their genitals or buttocks or a girl’s chest?”

The priest hesitated. “Do you mean…skin to skin?”

Foggy’s head snapped up from his notetaking.

“Or, you know, over clothes?” Geary went on.

The fact that he even had to ask that. Matt breathed carefully through his nose, fighting back a sudden swell of nausea. “Skin to skin.”

“ _None_ ,” the priest said emphatically.

“And over clothing, then?”

“I…I don’t know.”

“I need a number.”

“I don’t remember. Not…not many.”

“But some?”

Geary squirmed. “Maybe.”

“More than ten?”

“No.”

“More than five?”

“I don’t know, I don’t—”

“Less than five?”

“I…yes, less than five.”

“That’s a yes, then, that you’ve touched children’s genitals over their clothes?”

The priest let out a strained laugh. “Well, you make it sound so extreme. It wasn’t anything like that. It was just, you know…hugging and teasing and playing around, that sort of thing.”

“When was the last time you engaged in any of that with a child?”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

Matt’s heart pounded in his ears. “I’m curious, do you think the child remembers?”

“Objection,” Walker said softly.

He ignored her. “Do you think the child remembers?”

“I…no,” Geary said, “it wasn’t anything extreme like that. And it was years ago.”

“How many years?”

“I told you, I don’t remember.”

“Did any of the male children ever get an erection?”

“Not that I remember.”

“Father, would you agree with me that touching children like that causes them harm?”

The room went cold and quiet.

“I…it would depend,” Geary said eventually.

For a second, Matt was too stunned to say anything. (Why was _this_ , of everything Geary was saying, the thing that got to him?) “On what?” he managed at last.

“On…I don’t know, you’d have to give me an example.”

Matt took a deep breath and kept his hands under the table where no one could see that they were shaking. “Father, you were in a position of power over these children, correct?”

“I…I wouldn’t call it that.”

“You claim to be a man who represents God, don’t you?”

“Yes, that’s…what a priest is.”

“And these children came to you for absolution?”

“Yes.”

“They came to you for counseling?”

“Yes.”

“They trusted you, didn’t they, Father?”

“I…yes.”

“Wouldn’t you agree that it does them great harm to abuse that trust?”

“I—I didn’t, I never abused—it was just innocent touching.”

“You think it’s _innocent_ to touch children’s genitals?”

“It was all accidental,” the priest protested.

“Was it?”

“ _Yes_ ,” he insisted.

“So was it accidental or innocent?” Matt demanded. “Those aren’t the same thing.”

“It was…accidental.”

“You’d agree with me that touching children’s genitals, even accidentally, is inappropriate.”

“Well…yes, that’s why I never did it on purpose.”

“Did you ever change your behavior so that such _accidents_ wouldn’t happen?”

Geary squirmed in his chair. “I mean, as…as I got older, I was too old for playing around with them like that. So, yes, I stopped.”

“Were you ever told that such behavior was inappropriate?”

“No, it was all accidental. When you’re working with kids, playing around with them, it just…it just happens.”

“No one at either St. Mark’s or St. Matthew’s ever told you it was _your_ responsibility to make sure such accidents never happened?”

“No.”

Good, that was good. Matt ran his hand briefly over his braille notes, and took a second to mentally brace himself before moving on to this next line of questioning. “Now, Father, you took a vow of chastity, didn’t you?”

Geary held very still, like a mouse that sensed a hawk circling overhead. “Yes.”

“This means you took a vow not to engage in any sexual activity?”

“Yes.”

“Did you use children as a means to satisfy your sexual desires?”

“Do you mean…subliminally?”

Walker coughed loudly. (Geary flinched.)

Matt swallowed hard. “In any way. Subliminally or otherwise.”

“Ah, no.”

“Do you find children arousing?”

“No, not at all.”

It was a funny thing, to hate hearing him lie like that while simultaneously feeling the thrill that came with knowing the lie would be exposed. “Have you ever gotten erect while interacting with a child?”

“No.”

“So these sexual desires of yours, how _do_ you satisfy them?”

The priest stiffened, but there was a hint of paradoxical amusement in his voice when he eventually answered: “Well, you know. Masturbation.”

Foggy fidgeted awkwardly with the cuff of his sleeve, but Matt stayed focused. “And when you masturbate, do you fantasize about young boys?”

“No. Just women, you know.” The priest shifted in his seat, blood warming his skin at whatever he was thinking.

So Matt played along. Indulged him. Pretended that these questions were of no real importance. “Any women in particular?”

“A few.” Geary gave a small laugh. “The first girl I ever liked, back in middle school. The few that I dated in high school. And some of the sisters, you know.” He shrugged—but not in embarrassment. He seemed relaxed for the first time in the deposition, like whatever memories he was entertaining were more immediate than the consequences of what he was saying. “I still dream about them. Sometimes it’s just memories, sometimes we’re doing things. You know how it is, Matthew.”

Matt did not tell him not to use his name. He didn’t want to hear any of this, but the only person the priest could hurt with his loose tongue was himself, so Matt kept silent.

“And then, you know,” the priest went on, “as I got older, I started to notice an attraction to men. Not that I could do anything about it. I’d taken my vow, I had to put all that aside. But there was definitely an…an attraction.”

Walker cleared her throat sharply.

Foggy’s head swiveled to face her. “Do you need a drink of water?”

“No,” she said icily. “Thank you.”

Gear had stopped talking too late. He hadn’t needed to say any of that, _shouldn’t_ have said that. But he didn’t seem able to help himself. He shifted in his seat. “But I always put all that aside,” he repeated lamely.

“This attraction to men,” Matt began, “did it include prepubescent boys?”

Walker started tapping a pen against the table in warning.

But Geary must have misunderstood her warning, because he said, “No, not really.”

Did he think Matt was an idiot? “Not really?” Matt echoed.

“Not at all,” Geary corrected himself firmly.

He was the idiot here. “To be clear, it’s your testimony today that you aren’t attracted to prepubescent boys at all?”

Geary started sweating harder. “…Yes.” He didn’t sound so confident this time.

Matt leaned a little closer over the table. “Forgive me, Father, I know your memory has failed you a couple times during this deposition, but do you not remember admitting at the beginning of this deposition that the police found pornographic videos of children on your personal computer?”

Geary froze.

Walker cursed very, very quietly under her breath.

“Do you not remember that?” Matt hissed.

“Ah…no, I just…I didn’t think that was what you were asking about,” Geary said limply.

“Did you keep these pornographic videos on your _personal computer_ for _personal use?_ ”

“I…yes, all right, I watched those sometimes when…when I masturbated. But not often, and I’m not proud of it, I just…well, you know how it is…”

Matt clenched his jaw. “How what is?”

Geary fidgeted. “Nothing,” he mumbled at last.

“Some of these videos featured prepubescent boys, correct?”

“I…believe so, yes.”

“So you are attracted to prepubescent boys.”

Geary’s mouth opened and closed silently.

“A yes or no will be fine, Father.”

“I…” Geary sounded strangled. “There might be…some attraction. But I’d never act on it.”

“But when you insisted earlier that you had no attraction to prepubescent boys whatsoever, that was a lie.”

“I wouldn’t act on it,” Geary repeated helplessly.

“These videos were also of prepubescent girls, weren’t they?”

“…I believe so, yes.”

“So you’re attracted to little girls as well, not only adult women.”

“I…I mean…” He bit the inside of his cheek; Matt’s ears caught the squishy, fleshy sound. “Yes.”

“You failed to mention that earlier,” Matt noted.

Geary mumbled something incomprehensible.

“Can you say that again more clearly, for the record?”

“I didn’t think you were asking about that,” Geary said heavily.

Matt ignored his evasion. “Isn’t it true that some of these videos included adults sexually abusing children?”

“Maybe…one or two…”

“Do you find that arousing?”

“ _No_ ,” Geary said finally, desperately. “They were just…in the collection. I didn’t watch those.”

Sure he didn’t. “Are you also aware that John Doe claims that you gave him pornographic videos?”

“I don’t know anything about those. I don’t know where he got those.”

“So you deny giving them to him?”

Geary fidgeted. “Yes.”

“And you deny watching any pornographic videos with John Doe or any other child?”

“Yes, of course, they were…private.”

“John Doe still has some of those videos, and he’s described others. Would it surprise you to know that these videos are very similar to the ones found on your personal computer?”

“I don’t know. I don’t really know what’s common or not in…in the porn industry…”

Sure he didn’t. Matt ran his hand over his notes again, making sure he hadn’t missed anything in this section. He hadn’t. More importantly, Geary had thoroughly screwed himself.

(Walker was now sitting slumped in her seat, and she wasn’t the real enemy here, but observing her obvious defeat was more than pleasant.)

Matt cleared his throat. “Father, I want to move on and talk about how involved St. Matthew’s has been throughout all of this.”

Geary sat up straighter. (The church’s lawyers braced themselves.)

Matt had to lay this trap carefully. “Father, have you ever been confronted by anyone at any church about touching children?”

“No,” Geary answered, wiping a bead of sweat off his forehead.

“Have you ever been warned to stop behaving inappropriately with children?”

“No, there’s never been a need.”

“Has there ever been a conversation between you and a person in authority over you about concerns anyone had about your behavior with children?”

“No.”

“Has there ever been a conversation between you and a person in authority over you about your collection of child porn?”

“Ah…no, no one…knew about any of that.”

He didn’t seem to be lying, although it was harder to tell now. He was still flustered over the last line of questions, sweating, heart beating too fast, hands shaking just a little. “After the parents of Jane Doe’s friend wrote a letter to St. Mark’s, the archbishop talked with you, didn’t he?”

“No,” the priest said, too quick to defend himself. “There was no need.”

“So to clarify, Jane Doe’s friend’s parents made a complaint about you touching her sexually, and…nothing happened to you as a consequence?”

“Yes. Nothing happened.”

“And, again, to clarify, no one in authority over you asked if the allegations were true?”

“No, they didn’t.”

Perfect. The parents already said the church had promised to speak with Father Geary—meaning either Geary was lying, or the church was. “And after these parents wrote a letter to St. Mark’s, complaining about your behavior, did you change your behavior in any way?”

“No.”

“Did it ever appear to you that anyone at either St. Mark’s or St. Matthew’s was concerned about how you interact with children?”

“No.”

“Do you know of any complaints about inappropriate behavior with children made against other priests at either St. Mark’s or St. Matthew’s?” It was a longshot; neither church had given Matt or Foggy any records indicating that such complaints were ever made. But Matt was hoping Geary would seize the chance to appear to redeem himself.

From the way the church’s lawyers collectively held their breath, they didn’t think it was a fool’s hope.

Geary wet his lips. “Yes.”

Foggy let out a soft exhale, which Matt took as the equivalent of a congratulatory fist bump. “Which priests?”

“Just one,” Geary said. “His name was Randy Lightfield. He was with me at St. Matthew’s until…five, maybe six years ago.”

“How many complaints were made against Randy Lightfield?”

“Two, I think.”

“And how do you know about them?”

Geary shrugged. “Father Lightfield told me about them. We discussed it.” He drew himself up slightly. “I told him such behavior was inappropriate, of course.”

Matt’s heart pounded at this new treasure trove of information. “How were these complaints made? Were they written?”

“No, I think it was just some concerned parents having a private talk with Father Lightfield about it.”

“Did you inform anyone else at St. Matthew’s about what Lightfield told you?”

“Yes,” Geary said swiftly, heart skipping a beat as he lied through his teeth.

“What was the date of that conversation?” Matt asked just as swiftly.

“Uh…” Geary wet his lips again. “I don’t remember.”

Sure. “Let’s go back to these complaints. What did they allege?”

Geary outlined them briefly, talking about how Lightfield took a special interest in two little boys, about how he took advantage of the fact that both were considered _errant_ for different reasons. “Lightfield told them they were infected by Satan, and he was the only one who could help them.”

_The Murdock boys, they’ve got the devil in them._

_Your grandmother was right._

Matt took a deep breath, giving himself one, two, three seconds to focus on the air in his lungs, the weight of his glasses over his ears and on the bridge of his nose, the rigidness of the seat beneath him, and Foggy’s steady presence next to him. Then he asked, voice chilled but professional, “Where is he now?”

In his eagerness to keep the attention on Lightfield, Geary didn’t seem to have noticed Matt’s reaction; he answered readily: “He was transferred to St. Anne’s.”

“He’s still a priest?”

“Yes, as far as I know.”

“Why was he transferred?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did it have anything to do with the complaints made against him?”

“Objection,” Walker blurted out. “He said he doesn’t know.”

Matt narrowed his eyes. “Are you aware of whether St. Matthew’s investigated the complaints against Lightfield?”

“I don’t know, I’m sorry.”

Matt rephrased. “Did St. Matthew’s ever ask you about what _you_ knew of Lightfield’s behavior?”

Geary’s head turned fractionally towards the church’s lawyers before turning back to Matt. “No. They didn’t.”

There. They had the church. More than one church, actually. Potentially.

Matt nodded, not letting him think yet about the magnitude of what Geary just revealed. He checked his notes again. He tilted his head at Foggy, who didn’t say anything. Matt’s hands were starting to shake. He cleared his throat. “Those are all the questions I have for you, then.”

Walker jumped in. “Father, you have a right to read the transcript of this deposition and make any corrections before you sign it. I recommend that we go over it together before you do so,” she added pointedly, “but it’s your choice.”

“We’ll go over it together,” Geary said hurriedly.

~

There. It was over.

Matt didn’t want to race out of the room, so he stayed determinedly in his seat while Foggy followed his lead, taking his time jotting down notes as the videographer and court reporter packed up their things. The church’s lawyers left right away, and Matt heard them cursing Geary out in whispers in the hallway. Walker stayed with Geary as he was escorted out by a guard. Only when the room was empty did Matt finally stand.

“Dude,” Foggy said. “That was…”

Matt felt like there were ants under his skin. He felt victorious, but also like he needed a shower. Maybe like he needed to go to confession. Mostly like he needed to go beat the daylights out of a punching bag. Or, ideally, a criminal. But he’d settle for a punching bag if it meant not having to wait until tonight.

“You okay?” Foggy asked.

Matt unfolded his cane and leaned on it and thought about saying he was fine. But Foggy deserved better. Their friendship deserved better. And…and there was something comforting about having the freedom, now, to tell the truth. “I have no idea,” he admitted.

“Yeah,” Foggy said quietly as Matt led the way out of the room. The rest of the noises of the prison rushed in, but Matt focused on the weight of the arm Foggy had slung around his shoulders. “You were _amazing_ , though. You killed it. Getting him to start talking about that other priest? Lightfield? Man, I bet Karen will have him tracked down by tonight. We depose him, and no matter what happens to Geary, St. Matthew’s won’t be able to keep pretending they know how to supervise priests. And what was that church Lightfield got transferred to?”

“St. Anne’s.”

“Right. We’ll have to talk to them, see what they can tell us…” Foggy pulled his arm back from around Matt to adjust the strap of his bag. “And then there are those other people who wrote complaints at St. Mark’s. Three other victims. We gotta see if they’ll give us anything. Shit, this case just keeps getting bigger. Like a spiderweb or something.”

At those words, Matt was hit with a wave of exhaustion. Yes, he’d extracted some vital testimony from Geary, but Foggy was right. The case was getting bigger. In addition to contacting the other victims, they’d have to depose Lightfield if they could find him, and maybe others from St. Anne’s. But it would be expensive, and it would take time, and Matt…he wanted this to be over.

(He wanted justice. Of course he did. But how long would it _take?_ )

“Matt?”

He blinked, realizing that Foggy had been talking to him. “Sorry, what?”

Foggy was quiet for a moment, as if reading Matt’s face. “Never mind. It can wait. Are you hungry?”

“Not really.”

“Let’s grab food anyway, okay? You can save it for later if you want.”

Matt didn’t want to argue with him; Foggy was just trying to help. “Sure.”

“Awesome. Then I was thinking, maybe we can take a break before going over the deposition again. Cool?”

But Matt shook his head. “We have to go over it while it’s still fresh.”

Foggy drew back in affected offense. “Excuse me, are you slighting my esteemed note-taking skills?”

“I would never,” Matt said dryly.

“Besides, we’ll get the video recording and the transcripts soon enough. There’s literally no reason to go through all of that again. Please, can we do something stupid and mindless?”

“I was gonna go to the gym,” Matt admitted.

“Cool. Can I come?”

Matt squinted in Foggy’s direction. “…Why?”

“Because watching you go to town on punching bags is pretty sick. Obviously.”

“Foggy.”

Foggy sighed. “Okay. I am just a tiny, _teensy_ bit worried about you.” He held up a hand to demonstrate, thumb and forefinger a fraction of a centimeter apart. “And I kinda think it might be good for you to not be alone right now.”

Matt tipped his head to one side. “And if I tell you I want to be alone?”

He didn’t, really. Or, rather, he didn’t know what he wanted.

“Just because you want it…doesn’t necessarily mean it’d be a good thing,” Foggy answered carefully.

Yeah, that was…that was a fair point. Matt fought past his instinctive reaction to feel stifled or infantized or whatever, choosing instead to just…appreciate how much his best friend cared about him. He even managed a smile as he said, “You can come if you want.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title is referencing the entirety of Psalm 94 which is way too long to include here, but it is quite googleable (apparently that's not a real word) if you want to read it.
> 
> These questions establish: more detail of what Geary did to Samuel and Rachel, that Geary touched other kids in confession (which he admits is abnormal, since confession is supposed to be anonymous), that Geary took Samuel out of state, that Geary received some kind of training to protect against accusations of molestation (with instructions he ignored), that he's touched children through their clothes (accidentally, he claims; he also claims he never tried to alter his behavior so that such accidents wouldn't keep happening), and, crucially, that he is in fact attracted to kids. He at first denies this, but then Matt reminds him that there was child porn found on his personal computer. As for the church, Geary reiterates that no one in authority ever talked to him about about his behavior with kids (including his possession of porn); he also says he knows of one other priest from St. Matthew's (Randy Lightfield) who received two complaints and was subsequently transferred to yet another church (St. Anne's). Geary claims that no one at St. Matthew's ever asked Geary about what he knew about Lightfield.
> 
> (Also, and this is awful so please feel free to skip this note, but I don't get "credit" for inventing Geary's horrible "skin to skin" and "subliminal" clarifications, since they were both drawn from the actual deposition. Like, a real person said that in a real deposition.)
> 
> ANYWAY ON A HAPPIER NOTE JUSTICE WILL BE SERVED AND IT'LL BE AMAZING.


	34. James 1:17

Foggy convinced him to get food before going to the gym, and of course he insisted on putting it all in _Matt’s_ fridge, which was fine since Matt needed to go home to change into gym clothes anyway, but Matt was so distracted by everything that just happened that he didn’t realize the significance of Foggy coming back to his apartment.

(It was also possible that he was so used to the cat’s presence by now that she simply didn’t always register to his senses.)

Meaning that he was wholly unprepared for Foggy to stop dead at the end of the hallway. “Excuse me,” he said, a bit stiffly, “but what is _that_.”

Matt came up behind him and noticed the cat perched on the arm of his couch. She seemed nervous to face Foggy, tail twitching where it was wrapped neatly over her paws, but she was also staying put, as if she’d claimed the couch as her territory.

Matt stifled a sigh. “It’s a cat. Or so I have been reliably informed.”

“You have a cat?” Foggy asked stupidly.

“No.”

“No?”

“No.” Since Foggy didn’t seem interested in putting the food away, Matt relieved him of the bags of takeout he was holding and went to put it all in the fridge.

“Then is there another logical explanation for why there’s a cat in your apartment? Did it break in?” Foggy suddenly sounded worried. “Did _someone else_ break in and now you have a broken window and a cat snuck in? Because you should’ve _told_ me, Matt, you know I have handyman skills, I could’ve fixed your door, and also _why are you not freaking about having a strange cat in your apartment_.”

“Nothing’s broken.” Matt turned back towards the weird stand-off now ongoing in his living room and awkwardly put his hands in his pockets. “I let her in.”

“Oh,” Foggy said, sounding like his entire worldview was on the verge of turning upside down. “Okay. Makes total sense. Except… _why?_ ”

He really was determined to make Matt say it, wasn’t he? (Why was Matt so averse to saying it?) Pressing his lips together, Matt strode forward, scooped up the cat, and held her in his arms, then lifted his chin in Foggy’s direction.

“Yeah, okay,” Foggy said. “You have a cat.”

“She’s a stray.”

“Doesn’t look like it.” (As if on cue, the cat started purring.)

“It’s cold outside,” Matt protested.

“Uh-huh.”

Matt glared.

“How long has she been staying here?”

Pretty much as long as they’d been seeing Hannah and Samuel, but saying that out loud felt like admitting to something. “Couple weeks,” he mumbled. (Couple months.)

“Dude,” was all Foggy said.

What was _that_ supposed to mean?

“What’s her name?”

Matt gritted his teeth. (Why was he so irritated about all this?) “I haven’t named her,” he said tightly. “She’s a stray.”

“You must call her _something_ , even just to yourself.”

“She’s just…the cat.”

“You should name her.”

“No,” Matt growled.

Foggy threw his hands in the air. “You’re making zero sense! What’s so awful about just _admitting_ you adopted a cat?”

“I don’t want to lose her!” Matt burst out.

Foggy froze.

Matt froze.

The cat wriggled in his arms; he was holding her too tightly.

But he couldn’t bring himself to let go. He loosened his hold, but also ducked his head to bury his face in her fur, breathing in her scent, like that could block out the sound of Foggy’s carefully-controlled breathing.

“Dude,” Foggy said again, this time slowly and cautiously, “I don’t see the connection.”

Matt just shook his head. Why had he even said that? It was so stupid. They were supposed to be going to the gym anyway, and he still had a headache, and he was tired and agitated and he smelled like the prison and…he didn’t want to do this right now.

He should put her down. Leave her and Foggy to bond or whatever while he changed into sweats so they could leave. But he didn’t really want to let her go. Not right now.

So instead he just stood there, holding her, knowing Foggy was watching him and getting more concerned by the second.

“Buddy?” Foggy asked eventually. “Why do you think you’re gonna lose her?”

Because that was what happened to everything precious in his life. Even if things returned to him, like Foggy and Karen and Maggie, he had to lose them first. Always. Could Foggy, with his huge, close-knit family, ever even understand that?

The cat let out a tiny _mew_ and squirmed again, tired of being held. Matt set her down quickly, hoping he didn’t look too…something. “We should go to the gym.”

“…Okay,” Foggy said quietly. His unspoken _we’re not done talking about this_ was so loud, he might as well have screamed it.

Great. Matt hurried into his room to change and grab his gym bag. At this point, he wanted to tell Foggy he didn’t really need to come with him to the gym. In fact, could he please just go home? If that conversation about the cat proved anything, it was that Matt was rubbed even more raw than he’d realized. And the thought of Foggy observing him while he was so _exposed_ felt…almost dangerous.

When Matt emerged from his bedroom, he opened his mouth to thank Foggy for the food but let him know that Matt really didn’t feel like company right now, only to find Foggy sitting cross-legged on the floor with his tie dangling from one hand as the cat chased after the fabric.

“You should get her some toys,” he said without looking up.

The problem was, Matt could picture it. Getting toys. Getting a litterbox. Giving her a name. Allowing himself to actually _have_ her.

And he could imagine how much worse it would hurt when…something went wrong.

“Anyway.” Foggy stood up, but he left his tie for the cat. “Let’s go?”

“What about your tie?”

“Eh.” Foggy shrugged. “There’s claw marks all over it now. It’s hers. It’s cool, I have more.”

“Uh, right.” Matt got his keys and led the way back out of the apartment, but by the time they reached the gym, he was still contemplating the ease with which Foggy had given up his tie for the cat.

~

The next morning, Matt rolled out of bed sore from the gym, knuckles raw. He fed the cat and dressed for work while she ate, then followed her up the stairs to let her out for the day. (They had a _routine_ , one that she _recognized_.) Then he went in to work, and the day passed in a blur. They had other cases besides Samuel’s with their own deadlines and complications, and they had to prepare to pursue all the new leads they’d gotten from Geary’s deposition.

Matt listened through the whole deposition twice, on his lunch break, when Foggy thought he was just listening to the news. He needed to know if he’d missed something. He didn’t think he had, and he almost wished he hadn’t listened when it left him wanting to punch something again.

Maybe he should go back to the gym after work.

But when he returned to the apartment, he found it still and quiet, with sunlight streaming in through the living room windows. Peaceful.

And it hit him, not with words so much as with a feeling: maybe the braver thing, the healthier thing, the _better_ thing was to deal with everything he was feeling another way.

So he set his glasses aside, changed into sweats and a t-shirt, and moved the coffee table aside so he could sit cross-legged in the living room, face tilted up towards the sun. He concentrated on each area of tension within his body, releasing the tightness with every slow, outward breath. When thoughts nudged at his mind, he acknowledged them, but tried to let them pass. No need to linger on what-if’s and should’ve-done’s.

How long had it been now since this kind of meditation was even possible for him?

It wasn’t the only thing that was long overdue.

Maybe it would be easier here, in his home, than at the church where there were…rites and rituals attached. There were _expectations_ at church. He wasn’t sure he could balance honesty with formality, not when he was so out of practice.

He wished the cat would come home, if only so he wouldn’t be alone for this. At the same time, she must be having fun out in the city. And maybe it was better that he wasn’t distracted.

He let his eyes fall closed. “Father in heaven,” he began, and stopped, discomfited for a second by how unfamiliar the words felt on his tongue. Taking a deep breath, he kept going, keeping it simple. “Thank You for how the deposition went. Please, just…let justice be done.”

There. That was, well, more than he’d managed to pray since this case started. Which was a pitifully low bar. And he couldn’t help feeling that the prayer was too…impersonal.

Prayer was supposed to be honest. Intimate. Vulnerable. Holding nothing back.

And all he could think about was the one thing he hadn’t prayed about in years. Not since he left that camp. It hurt too much, in too many different ways. And it was too big of a risk. On the one hand, Father Lantom said God wanted to be near to him. If he tried to pray about it, and God actually met him in the middle of the pain, that would be…well, he didn’t know what, actually, aside from the fact that it was what was supposed to happen. But if he tried, and all he got was silence?

He wasn’t sure he could handle that.

Still. The risk had been worth it with Father Lantom and Karen and Foggy. Maybe it would be worth it here?

He cleared his throat. “God, I…I just wanted to say…”

Honest. He had to be honest.

“I wanted to say…”

_I hate You._

No—no—that was too honest. That was not how he should feel or what he should think. That was actually a little bit scary.

_I don’t understand._

That wasn’t honest enough.

_I don’t…I don’t trust You anymore._

Matt’s throat closed up. It was wrong. And it was just…sad. After all, he could clearly remember how simple his faith was back when he was a kid. Innocent. Full of curiosity, but also childlike certainty. Then the accident happened, and his faith was tested, but he didn’t lose it. Then Jack was murdered, and his faith was _shredded_ , but he didn’t _lose_ it. Then Stick came into his life, and he let his faith shrink lest Stick find it and try to take it away, but he still didn’t lose it.

But now?

It shouldn’t be so devastating. It was pretty clear that he hadn’t trusted God, really _trusted_ Him, in years. But he hadn’t exactly acknowledged that fact, either. Not even to himself. Dr. Dorner asked in their very first session what his religion meant to him, and he hadn’t known then, but he did now: his religion was about doing the right things and confessing for doing the wrong ones, just trying to appease God enough that He would stay at a safe distance. It wasn’t trust.

Maybe Father Lantom would say that meant Matt had God all wrong. The priest would remind him that God wanted to come close. But, well, even if that were true, it didn’t change the fact that it was too little, too late.

And now Matt was the one flinching away.

He didn’t trust God.

Matt opened his eyes. There was no satisfaction the way other people might describe it, no sense of accomplishment in growing beyond the fairytale.

It just felt like another precious thing that he’d lost.

_I don’t trust You anymore._

He couldn’t even bring himself to actually say the words out loud. That would make them too real.

“Never mind,” he said, because saying _amen_ felt ridiculous at this point.

The sharp sound of a knock on the door was a relief in that at least it gave him the excuse to stop pretending to pray. He’d distantly registered footsteps in the hall, although he’d vaguely assumed it must be one of Fran’s visitors. But now…he focused, and recognized the scent of the man standing outside.

Brett.

What was _he_ doing here?

Matt focused harder. Brett was standing very still outside, but his breathing was shallow. And…yes, his heartrate was up. He was, what, _nervous?_

Whatever was going on here, it couldn’t be good. For a second, Matt seriously considered just hiding in his bedroom until Brett left. Then he told himself to stop being stupid.

Whatever this was, he could handle it.

Getting up, Matt smoothed down his hair, touched his face to feel for any obvious cuts or bruises he’d need to explain away, slipped his glasses over his eyes, and went to open the door.

Brett wasn’t wearing his uniform. “Murdock,” he greeted him.

“Officer.” Matt didn’t have to feign confusion. “What are you doing here? Is something wrong?”

“Well, I’m not sure yet. Can I come in?”

“Do you have a warrant?”

“Are you serious?”

Matt smiled. “Sorry.”

Brett sighed heavily. “I hate defense attorneys. You know that, right?”

Matt just shrugged.

“Look, I know you can’t see me, but I’m not wearing my uniform right now. I’m not _actually_ here on official business.”

Matt raised his eyebrows. “So this is, what, a social call?”

“You could say that. Can I come in now?”

“You’re still a cop. Sorry.”

“Listen.” Brett lowered his voice. “I really don’t wanna have this conversation out in the open. And I’m thinking you don’t want that either.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Consideration. I’m being considerate.”

Matt folded his arms across the chest. “You’ll have to give me more than that.”

“Why you gotta make this so difficult,” Brett muttered under his breath. At almost the same volume, he said: “It’s about your assault.”

Matt’s eyes flew wide. “Excuse me?”

“The plainclothes cops at twenty-first and seventh.”

Shit. Matt’s mind flashed back to that icy cold day and the asphalt cutting into his face. His ribs, more easily ignored these days but still healing, twinged. “How do you even know about that? I—I never reported it.”

“Miss Page was asking questions.”

Of course she was. Matt bit back a scowl. “Come in,” he said roughly.

Brett stepped across the threshold and ambled down the hallway. “Nice place,” he commented. “Looks like it costs a fortune.”

“Not really.” Matt closed the door and headed into the kitchen. “You should see it at night. You want a drink?”

“If it’s caffeinated or alcoholic, I’ll take it. What happens at night?”

“Billboard.” Figuring he’d need something alcoholic himself, Matt got out two beers. “Shines right in through the window. Or so I’m told.”

“Damn.” Brett accepted a bottle and moved as if to sit down on the couch, only to alter course and sit at the dining table. He waited until Matt had perched gingerly on the edge of the chair opposite him to say, “So Miss Page got surveillance footage from two of the shops where the assault happened.”

Pressing his lips into a thin line, Matt said nothing.

“She came by the precinct. Refused to talk to anyone but me. Showed me the footage. Said the two assailants were cops.” He paused. “She was right.”

“You recognized them?”

“Eventually. They’re…” Brett rubbed at the back of his neck. “They’re on paid leave while internal affairs looks into it.”

Paid leave. Of course. Matt took a long drink of his beer and carefully said nothing.

“I’m sorry. For what it’s worth.”

Matt shrugged. “It wasn’t your fault.” Brett was doing his best operating in a broken system. Same as Matt, really. Same as Father Lantom. Same as anyone trying to do any good in any institution, probably.

“Still.” Brett paused, then slowly withdrew a notebook from a pocket. “You want to make a statement?”

Matt was shaking his head before he’d even thought about it.

“…Are you sure?”

Was he? Maybe he _should_ give a statement. Maybe that would ensure those cops actually got an appropriate punishment. But talking about it, reliving the fear and the helplessness—it wasn’t at all the same thing as talking about Sheridan…but…it wasn’t like there were no similarities.

“Not right now,” Matt said softly.

Brett just nodded and put the notebook back without comment.

Matt cleared his throat. “So, uh…if that’s all you came for…”

But Brett made no move to get up.

Still holding his own beer, Matt ran his thumb back and forth across the slightly beveled texture of the cool glass, focusing on the sensation.

Finally, Brett spoke up again. “Heard you deposed the priest.”

Having no idea where he was going with that, Matt just said, “Yeah.”

“Think it went well?”

“Yeah, actually.”

“Good.” And with that, Brett took a long drink of his beer.

As the silence stretched out, Matt raised his eyebrows. “So…if this is just a social call…”

“Do you mind?”

Matt really hadn’t expected so direct a question. Not wanting to be more impolite than he’d already been, he had to shake his head.

“Thank you,” Brett said suddenly.

“For?”

“For taking the case. Couldn’t’ve been easy.”

“Getting the results of your investigation helped,” Matt pointed out.

Brett ignored the comment. “I know you and Foggy aren’t in this for the money. You care about the kid. And I figure, that’s gotta make it harder, right? So I’m just…I’m glad it was you two, not some other lawyers.”

Matt frowned. He’d never heard Brett compliment anyone this much in his life.

“You should also know…I’ve had an officer assigned to the McCarty house ever since Miss Page showed me those videos.”

Matt blinked. “What?”

“In case someone decided to send another message.”

Matt was immediately caught between too many emotions at once. He should’ve thought of that, but there’d been Samuel’s deposition, and everything following it, and his own assault and everything it meant had been shoved to the back of his mind. “I…”

“No one’s tried anything,” Brett said quickly. “I’m hoping the two who went after you are the only ones who’d even think to, but even if not, I hope it’s being made clear that no one will be getting away with that kind of intimidation.”

Matt couldn’t believe he hadn’t been tracking that. He and Foggy had even made plans to tell Hannah what happened so she could be on her guard, but Matt never made sure that conversation actually happened. It was yet another responsibility he’d been too distracted to fulfill.

“Hey.” Brett’s voice was suddenly loaded with concern; he leaned forward across the table. “I’m just telling you so you don’t worry.”

“Thank you,” Matt said automatically. He should swing by their place tonight in the mask, just to be sure. Or maybe just to make up for leaving them unguarded. He should—

“Matt?”

Matt refocused at the sound of his name—his first name. “What?”

Strange: Brett’s heartbeat was ticking up. “Can I ask you something?”

“You just did.” It was pretty clear that this new subject was going to be even more difficult than the first, and Matt wasn’t excited to encourage it.

But Brett persevered. “I was wondering, have you always attended Clinton Church?”

Where was _that_ coming from? Matt took a quick drink of his beer. “Uh, yeah. My dad took me when I was a kid.”

“And Lantom’s been the priest the whole time?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“No reason,” Brett said quickly. “Just that you, uh…you mentioned another name once. Sheridan.”

Matt’s mouth went dry.

“He was a priest. Not at Clinton Church, obviously, but…at a summer camp Clinton Church was affiliated with.”

“That a question?”

Brett sat back in the chair, putting more distance between them, and half-raising his hands with his palms facing outwards. When he spoke, his voice was gentler than Matt had ever heard it. “I’m not trying to make you say anything. I’m just saying, there was a lawsuit about a decade ago. Someone accused Sheridan of raping them. I don’t know much—the suit wasn’t very big, wasn’t very public, and Sheridan pretty much went off the grid after that. But…but that’s what I do know,” he finished lamely.

Matt held his breath. “Why are you telling me this?”

Brett hesitated, as if wavering between the truth and a lie. It was honestly a relief when he just came out with it: “In case you wanna tell me anything.”

Matt’s mind just kind of…blanked out. Brett knew. He obviously knew. But he wasn’t a friend, not really. He was Foggy’s friend. He was a _cop_. He…he wasn’t supposed to know this. No one was supposed to know this unless Matt chose to tell them.

This wasn’t fair.

Several seconds passed, or maybe minutes. “I’m sorry,” Brett said eventually, and Matt couldn’t tell if he was apologizing for what happened or for the fact that he knew about it or for the fact that he was sitting here talking about it. “Listen, there are resources. Victims services, support groups. If you want, I can—”

“I don’t need any of that.” Matt didn’t recognize his own voice; it was cold and shaky all at once.

“Okay,” Brett said immediately. “That’s fine. If you change your mind, I can get you connected.” He shifted his weight on the chair. “Does—can I ask—does Foggy know?”

Matt wet his lips. “Yeah,” he whispered.

Brett nodded once, as if to himself. “I guess, between the two of you, you’re getting any help you need?” His voice went up hopefully at the end.

What kind of help did he think Matt needed? And suddenly it hit him: how he must seem to Brett. Foggy’s blind friend, abused as a kid and then helpless as an adult when two cops attacked him. Brett had no idea how capable he was, and it _shouldn’t_ matter, but it _did_. He forced himself to sit up straighter. “Look, Brett, I’m not—I’m not a victim here.”

“I know that,” Brett said calmly.

“I can take care of myself.”

“I know that.”

Matt gritted his teeth. “Well, you’re not acting like it.”

Brett’s heart was beating faster again, but Matt couldn’t tell if it was dishonesty or nerves. “I—look, I’m not here in any official capacity, all right? So you don’t have anything to worry about.”

What?

“But, uh…you remember when Geary got his plea deal?”

Matt narrowed his eyes.

“And how that night, Daredevil put him in the hospital?”

What did _that_ have to do with—

“There were latent fingerprints at the scene.”

The entire world compressed in that moment. So this was why Brett had come. Why waste time with everything else? Throwing Matt off guard? Trying to make him feel weak? Why—

Brett was still talking. “On some cards in the kitchen. They weren’t great fingerprints. Kind of smudged, and not many to work with. But I wanted to see if anything would come up. The results were technically inconclusive, but when I widened the tolerance…yours are in the system. They came up as a possible match.”

A distant part of Matt’s mind wondered if Brett could see his pulse hammering in his throat. “You’re not a certified analyst. It’ll never hold up in court.”

Brett just shrugged. “It wouldn’t hold up anyway. It’s still inconclusive. But it got me thinking. And a lot of pieces started fitting into place. I mean, it was already weird that Daredevil would break into the home of a priest about to go to jail. Not like Geary had much time left to hurt anyone else. So that made it all seem…personal. And from there, well…”

Matt’s only semi-rational thought at this point was that Foggy was going to kill him for letting his identity slip in so stupid a way.

“Now, I’ve known Foggy for years, and I’d like to think I know you pretty well by now too, and you don’t strike me as the kinda guys who’d invent a disability as a cover story. You really are blind, right?”

Matt just nodded dumbly. Why was he playing along? He didn’t have to answer these questions. Inconclusive prints wouldn’t be enough to get a warrant. Anything he said could be used against him. He should call Foggy. He should—

“Damn,” Brett said quietly. “I’d love to hear the story of how that works sometime. Not right now, though. You look like you’re freaking out. But don’t worry. I said this was a social call. I won’t be arresting you.”

Cops were allowed to lie to suspects. Brett’s heartbeat seemed relatively steady, but Matt couldn’t take chances. Not with this. “You need to leave.”

“I will if you want me to. But I’m serious: I won’t be arresting you.”

“I’m not—I’m not Daredevil,” Matt finally managed to say. So, so belatedly.

“It’s okay, Matt,” Brett said softly. “I mean, don’t tell anyone I said this, but I’m actually glad you’re out there. Sometimes the police just can’t do enough. I know that. And the only reason I'm telling you this is because, see, I _know_ you can take care of yourself. But that doesn’t mean—”

Matt stood up. “You need to leave.”

“Okay. Okay. I’m leaving.” Brett got up too, much more slowly, keeping his hands where Matt would otherwise have been able to see them. “Thanks for the beer. And…for everything you do.”

What was happening right now?

Brett headed for the door, only to pause before opening it and turn back towards Matt, who had stopped to hover a few feet away. “Murdock,” he said, and the return to the professional use of Matt’s surname weirdly made him feel slightly less panicked about all this. “Just so you know? I have…” He paused and shook his head at himself. “I can’t believe I’m saying this to a defense attorney,” he muttered.

Matt raised his eyebrows.

Brett took a deep breath. “I have nothing but respect for you. And, frankly, I’d be saying that even if I didn’t know you could backflip off a five-story building. I need you to know that.”

Matt’s lips parted as the words sank in.

“So, yeah.” Clearing his throat, Brett opened the door. “I’ll be seeing you.”

And just like that, the conversation was over. Matt stood stock still and listened, but he didn’t hear Brett calling dispatch to report finding Daredevil.

After a few moments, however, he heard the cat on the roof. Her tiny paws padded across to the door, and she started _mewing_ politely to be let in.

He complied, still shaky and glad to not be alone. Also glad for an excuse to put off calling Foggy. The cat barely paused to brush against him as she stepped inside, instead bounding down the stairs and heading straight to the chair where Brett had been sitting, sniffing suspiciously.

“Yeah,” Matt said. “We had company while you were out.”

She made a noise that sounded like she hadn’t yet decided what she thought of this development.

“He’s a friend,” Matt said, getting her some lunch meat. Not for any particular reason, just that giving her a special treat made him feel better. “He won’t hurt us. I think.”

She was already between his feet, recognizing the opening of the fridge as a sign of potential goodies. She _mewed_ hungrily.

“I know, I know.” Without really thinking about it, he sat down on the floor, his back against the fridge, feeling it hum. He split the lunch meat into separate pieces and slowly fed her. He could call Foggy afterwards. “So, uh…my friend thinks I should name you.”

She was not shocked by this. She simply continued gulping down her treat.

“I dunno, though. Seems like that’s a slippery slope. First I’m naming you, then I’m buying you a collar, then I’m…I don’t know, what do people _do_ with cats?”

She had no helpful insight.

“I don’t know. Do you…do you _like_ being a stray?”

She sneezed, and it somehow sounded offended.

“Would you…” He lowered his voice, like he was about to share some shameful secret. “Would you rather belong to me? You could still come and go,” he added quickly. “I’ll get a…a cat door, or something. And…I know something could still go wrong. For either of us.” She’d be safer if he kept her locked away, but he couldn’t bring himself to take away her freedom like that. “But I was thinking maybe it’s…maybe it’s worth it?”

She swallowed down the last of the lunch meat, then wasted no time in crawling into his lap, purring loudly and contentedly.

He stroked a finger against her cheek. “How about it’s your choice?”

In response, she tilted her head down so he could scratch her ear for a second, then promptly curled up in his lap, kneading at his stomach with her front paws. It hurt, a little, when her claws pricked through his shirt, but since it seemed that he’d gotten his answer, he didn’t care at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> James 1:17 ~ "Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows."
> 
> So I didn't plan for Foggy to meet the cat in this chapter, but then I was like "You know what? We need some fluff." And then Matt goes and undermines all the fluff. It wasn't my fault, that's all I'm saying.
> 
> Also, I did a weird amount of research into fingerprinting and only like 2% of the research actually fit in the chapter. Alas. But Matt should've been background-checked a lot (between internships in law school - not L&Z, maybe, but if he ever interned as a public defender or something, which I'd love to believe he did - and admission to the state bar) so WHY DOES HE WEAR FINGERLESS GLOVES IN SEASON 3 it's fine it's fine it's fine I'm fine.


	35. Psalm 27:10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I'm way behind in the comments, but I love them and have been holding them close to my heart, and I promise to reply soon!

At work the next day, Matt couldn’t focus. Which was no small problem, given just how much they had to do. Yes, the deposition had gone well, but now Karen was reaching out to St. Anne’s and the three other victims from St. Mark’s while Matt and Foggy reworked their questions for the archbishop’s deposition with the information they’d gotten from Geary. They were keeping Hannah and Samuel updated all the way, but communication was primarily between phone calls, texts, and emails. There just wasn’t time for in-person meetings.

And that was the bigger problem. Matt hadn’t actually been in the same room as Samuel since the kid’s deposition. What if he thought Matt only cared about the case, not the kid as a person? What if he felt forgotten or abandoned?

“Matt?” Karen’s gentle voice pulled him out of his thoughts; he found himself standing in the kitchen, hands resting on the counter, the coffee machine forgotten though it sat right in front of him. “You okay?”

“What? Sorry, yeah.” Shaking his head at himself, he hit the button that would get the machine percolating.

She leaned against the doorframe. “You sure? You seemed really…spacey. Is this about the Brett thing? Because it’s okay, we can trust him.”

Yeah, Matt had eventually decided that breaking the news that Brett knew Daredevil’s identity was really best done in person. (Or, more accurately, he’d privately hoped he’d get that little fact knocked out of his head as an excuse to not tell Foggy at all.) So, rather than getting up the courage to call him, Matt had slunk into the office this morning (without a concussion, sadly), and admitted what happened.

To his surprise, Foggy didn’t seem to blame him. Well, he was rather chastising of the fact that Matt touched something with his bare hand while breaking into Geary’s home, but when Matt tentatively explained how he’d just wanted to read the notes written to the priest, Foggy had seemed unusually—almost suspiciously—understanding.

Karen was still waiting for a response. “I know,” he said. “It’s not that.”

“…Wanna tell me what it is, then?” She sounded…curious, obviously, but also concerned, but also not aggressively inquisitive, for once.

He sighed, keeping his head down. “Samuel.”

“Did something happen?”

“No, I just…” He shifted his weight. “I haven’t really talked with him since the deposition.”

“Well, you’ve been busy.”

“That’s no excuse.”

“It’s a decent excuse.”

He shook his head again.

“Well, I happen to know you don’t have any more meetings today.” She took a step closer. “Why not stop by?”

She was right. And he should. There was no reason not to. Except…except for the fact that he still hadn’t figured out how to say what he needed to.

“Why do you look like you’re dreading talking to Samuel like he’s some shark from Landman and Zack?”

Matt’s lips quirked in a pathetic half-smile. “Because I am.”

“Why?” Now her hand brushed against his arm. “Did something happen?”

“No, it’s just—I’m being stupid.”

“That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?”

“I appreciate you trying to help, but it’s not that simple.”

“Never is, with you.”

That stung a little, although he was pretty sure she hadn’t meant it as an insult. “Look, you’re right. I should talk to him today. I _will_ talk to him today. I just…ugh.”

“Can I help?”

“Not with this.” This was a conversation he had to have on his own.

~

He could do this.

Matt knocked on the front door, then slipped his hands into his pockets as he waited. He heard activity inside; moments later, the door opened. The smell of cinnamon and sugar wafted out more strongly.

Matt tried to smile. “Hi.”

“Matt, hi, come in.” Hannah held the door open. “I was just making snickerdoodles with Samuel, but he can take a break.” She lowered her voice. “His therapist said it’s good for him to do creative things, especially with his hands. He stopped being into drawing when everyone else started caring about it too much, but it’s not that hard to get him into baking as long as I tell him he’ll get to eat it when we’re done.”

“Well, it smells delicious.”

“It smells like cinnamon,” she corrected. “We kind of made a mess.”

Matt could tell. “As the best cooking requires, I think.” He followed Hannah deeper into the house and found Samuel standing at the counter, furiously mixing at a bowl.

Hannah hurried closer. “Sammy, Sammy, slow down. Gentle stirs, remember?”

“Sorry.” Samuel dropped the bowl onto the counter, not actually sounding sorry. For a second, Matt thought he was angry. But everything in Samuel’s body language suggested _nervousness_ , not anger.

Matt was just letting his mind, his fears, hijack what his senses were telling him. He needed to focus. “Hi, Samuel. Smells great in here.”

Samuel shook his head. “Smells like _cinnamon_.”

Matt grinned at that, wondering if Samuel and Hannah realized how much they had in common, wondering which had rubbed off on the other first. “Anyway, um, look. I was hoping we could talk.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Well, it…it should be. Probably. But, uh, it’s not really guaranteed. Nothing is, in the legal system, really, it just—” Matt cut himself off. “Never mind. Should we talk here?” He turned his head towards Hannah.

She nodded, and caught herself. “I just nodded. Here’s fine. You can have a seat, Matt, right…” She leaned past him, tapping the back of a chair. “Here. Can I get you coffee or anything? Some of the snickerdoodles are ready, too. They’re the first ones we made, though, so they’re not _great_.”

He shook his head; he’d rather get straight to this. Still, he made himself wait until Hannah and Samuel had both pulled up chairs at the table across from him. Samuel had one overly-doughy snickerdoodle in front of him and a glass of milk.

“Okay.” Matt clasped his hands together under the table. “I understand that Foggy told you Geary’s lawyers and the lawyers for St. Matthew’s have contacted the judge alleging that I coached Samuel.”

Their heads turned towards each other like they were exchanging a glance. “Yes,” Hannah said eventually. “He told us. I’m not sure I understand, though. Can they really get Samuel’s testimony thrown out?”

“They can try. Foggy and I are fighting it, of course, but I…” He took a deep breath. “I needed to apologize.”

Hannah’s head tilted. “For what?”

“For…” Matt pressed his lips together. “For not anticipating this. And for not handling all of this differently. Better. I just…” He shrugged helplessly, lowering his gaze, wishing he could ignore the weight of theirs. “I remembered, uh, what it was like. To not understand what was happening to me. To hate myself because…because the priest who did that to me tried to twist it around like…like I wanted it. And I didn’t want you worrying about any of that.”

Silence fell over the room.

Matt cleared his throat. “I just…like I said, I needed to apologize.”

Samuel didn’t say anything.

Hannah seemed…upset, obviously, but Matt couldn’t quite parse out her specific emotions. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You were just trying to help.”

“As a lawyer, I should’ve realized I was…compromised. Look, I’m not…” Matt tensed, turning towards the kid. Reminding himself that acknowledging this was not a defeat. “I’m not like you, Samuel. I went years without ever talking about what happened to me. I convinced myself it didn’t affect me. And that made me blind to all the ways that it did. I should’ve known I wasn’t, um…wasn’t ready for a case like yours. That’s on me. That’s what I’m trying to apologize for.”

Hannah didn’t have an argument to that, and Samuel still wasn’t saying anything.

“But that’s only part of why I came.” He hesitated, resisting the temptation to preface this by telling them how well Geary’s deposition had gone. “The other reason is because I…I need to tell you both that I’ll be stepping back. From the case. I don’t want to, but I can’t risk missing something just because I…I’m distracted with, uh…” Matt clenched his jaw. “My own problems.”

“You’re not gonna be my lawyer?” Samuel blurted out.

“No, I still am. I mean, if you still want me. But—”

Samuel raised his voice. “Of course I want you!”

His heartbeat rang loud and clear: _truth_.

Matt’s chest tightened with too much emotion. “I’ll still help Foggy, but…I can’t be on point. Not like I have been. It wouldn’t be ethical. Or responsible. You understand?”

“I’m sorry,” Hannah murmured.

What made her think _she_ needed to apologize? Or maybe she just meant she was sorry for Matt? He didn’t know, so he didn’t address it. “I just needed to let you both know, so we’re all on the same page moving forward. Do…do either of you have any questions?”

Hannah’s voice lowered somewhat. “Do you really think it’s likely they’ll get Samuel’s testimony, um…thrown out?”

Matt shook his head. “The facts are in our favor. And even if the judge does think coaching occurred, the context is isolated enough that even though I might get sanctioned for it, I don’t think Samuel’s deposition will actually be thrown out.”

“Okay.” Hannah exhaled heavily. “So we’re okay?”

“Again, nothing is guaranteed, but…I think so.” Now that he’d said what he’d come here to say, Matt wanted to leave as soon as possible. Scooting his chair back, he stood up. “I just wanted to let you both know.”

But Samuel also got up. “You’re leaving? Already?”

“I, uh…”

“He probably has important things to do, honey,” Hannah said, and maybe Matt was reading into this, but it seemed like she wanted to give him an excuse to leave.

He couldn’t blame her.

But Samuel shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “Matt?”

“Yeah?”

“I, um…” Samuel’s head turned quickly towards his mom, like he was checking for her reaction, before he focused on Matt again. “I just wanted to say, I don’t care if they think you coached me.”

Matt was stunned. “What?”

“I mean, I hope you don’t get in trouble,” Samuel hurried to add, “but I don’t care besides that. Like, the…the case is good, y’know, but it’s not, um…it’s not the biggest thing.”

Maybe Matt was too tired, but he had no idea what Samuel was trying to say. “Sorry, what?”

“I mean…” Samuel let out a frustrated huff of breath.

Hannah came up behind him, her hand resting on his shoulder. “It’s okay.”

He ignored her, apparently concentrating too hard on figuring out how to say…whatever this was. “You helped me,” he managed at last. “This whole time. You’ve helped me like no one else could’ve. No one else was saying that stuff, no one else was—” His voice cracked and he ducked his head, scuffing his heel on the floor until his voice was stronger again. “I don’t care if the case gets messed up,” he finished firmly, deliberately. “It was worth it.”

Matt didn’t know what to say, and his throat was suddenly tight enough that speaking seemed impossible anyway.

“Thank you,” Hannah said more quietly. “For…everything you’ve said, and everything you’ve done.”

He nodded awkwardly. “I should get back to the office.”

“Of course, of course.”

He took a few steps towards the door, only to stop a second later. Hannah’s hand was still on Samuel’s shoulder. The mental image of them, standing there together, holding onto each other even through everything…it made Matt feel something. It wasn’t a new feeling, exactly, but it had been long buried under everything else.

An aching type of longing that only one person could satisfy.

Maggie.

He should tell her. He could even frame it as something altruistic, if he tried. After all, he was giving her the chance to help him. Wasn’t that what she wanted?

But he wasn’t so selfless. _He_ needed this. He needed to know that, even if she hadn’t been there for him back then, she was now. He couldn’t keep this secret back from her. It wasn’t his identity, but it was no insignificant thing either.

Besides, he just…he wanted this. He’d trusted Foggy and Karen and Claire and Father Lantom with this secret, but they were…they were his friends and his coworkers and his priest. They weren’t his _mother_.

He wasn’t sure why that mattered, and he actually kind of wished it didn’t.

But it did.

~

It stirred the old, familiar guilt to hear the surprise in her soft inhale when she found him in the basement of the church. “Hey, Mom.” He sounded stiff, nervous, but he pushed through. “Could, uh…could we talk?”

“Of course.” If he sounded stiff, she sounded nervous. “I was just doing laundry, but—but it can wait.” She took a few steps back, giving him space to enter the room. He headed for his old cot, sitting on the edge with his hands folded between his knees, while she hovered near the wall, not quite leaning against it. “What did you want to talk about?” She held herself warily, poised on the tips of her toes with tension in her neck. Bracing herself like she expected something terrible to come of this meeting.

Frankly, he was glad she was prepared for a fraught conversation. He just didn’t know if she expected another fight, or something else. “I’ve missed you.”

It was true. He missed her wisdom mixed with biting wit, her faith, and her heart for people. He even—selfishly, maybe—missed the way she focused so attentively on him, like she was trying to make up for all those years she’d lost, even when the weight of her concern was too heavy.

“Matthew—” she began.

“Mom—” he said at the same time.

They both stopped.

She tucked her hair back behind her ears. “Sorry. What did you want to say?”

He twisted his hands around the strap of his cane. “Just that I…I’m sorry. For how I’ve treated you recently. Especially at, uh…at St. Matthew’s. When you helped me. I shouldn’t have said any of that.”

Her head lowered. “I deserved every word.”

“You didn’t,” he insisted. “Not like that.”

She aimed her words at the floor. “But I did abandon you. I knew you were suffering. If I’d known how intense your senses are—”

Of course she still thought that was what it was about. To be fair, for the first couple years, she was right. “I didn’t tell you.”

She ignored that. “If I’d known, I would’ve…I would’ve tried to make accommodations. Growing up in a busy orphanage like that must have been so hard. All the noises and the smells and—”

“I didn’t tell you,” he repeated.

“I’ve worked with children for decades, Matthew. I should have known better than to expect you to open up to me. And yet…” She folded her arms tightly across her chest, hunching her shoulders, like her guilt was a real and tangible weight around her neck. “I think…in my pride, and my desperation for the consequences of my sin to be erased, I held onto the hope that you would just…trust me. More than you had any reason to. See, it…it felt so wrong to have to ask my child what was upsetting him, and so I just…didn’t.” She sniffed. “I’m so sorry. I can’t say that enough.”

He smelled the tears she was already fighting to keep back. How many had she shed on his behalf over the years? Too many, he was sure.

Somehow, the last thing he wanted was to give her another reason to cry. Maybe…maybe this was too soon? For them. For her, certainly, if she was still working through the guilt of her betrayal in the limited way she understood it. And, frankly…if it was too soon for her, he had no reason to expect her to be able to give him what he needed. He needed her love for him to be unconditional, unflinching, and how could she give him that if she fell apart?

It wasn’t fair. She was his _mother_ , it shouldn’t _matter_ whether _she_ was ready. Her job was just—just to _be there_ , and she’d already failed at that for so many years, leaving him to deal with the confusion and the loneliness and the blame all by himself. He didn’t want to hear her voice now only to think of one more thing he had to bear alone simply because she was too weak.

“Matthew?”

He’d been sitting there too long in silence. But he’d been reckless, coming here. Hadn’t thought it through. And now he had to face the fact that…the damage she’d done to their relationship was not something he could erase just by telling her the truth. The love and support he needed was not something he could trust her to give.

Standing up, he took a small step away from her.

It felt, in a way, like losing her all over again.

“Matthew, what’s wrong?” She moved closer to him, one hand on his arm.

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

“I don’t believe you.” Her voice was tender, but resolute. “Please, whatever it is, you can tell me.”

He wished that were true. Maybe it was? But if he gambled, and was wrong…that might not be something they could recover from.

She wasn’t ready. Closing his eyes behind his glasses, he took another moment just to gather up all the things he’d meant to tell her and pack them away. Bring them out later, if he could. Maybe in a month, or a year…if he stopped holding her back whenever she timidly tried to come close, if he reached out himself for once…if she kept trying or tried just a little harder…if he actively worked to repair things between them instead of letting her struggle to figure it out on her own…if she didn’t push…maybe their foundation would be strong enough to withstand this then. Maybe. Or maybe not.

Once he’d tucked the heavy truth away, he was able to smile gently despite the raw ache deep in his heart. “I forgive you.”

~

A week went by, and except for Sundays at church, Matt didn’t interact with Maggie at all. Whenever the familiar guilt rose up, he clung to Father Lantom’s words. He did not have to pretend everything was fine with her. He could choose to prioritize his own healing.

He was also still attending therapy. He’d explained how things went with Father Lantom, Karen, and Foggy. Then, instead of trying to journal about the events with Sheridan on his own again, he tentatively asked if he could do it with her. And it…it was hard, still. Of course it was. But he didn’t fall apart. And she helped him in a way that the others couldn’t, helped him carefully, meticulously identify those subtle ways still blamed himself or minimized what he’d gone through, helping him reframe the memories more accurately. It was hard. But there was something satisfying about deconstructing the web of lies piece by piece. Maybe eventually he’d be able to do it on his own.

It was hard. But it helped. He was healing.

Although he couldn’t say for sure that his primary motivation for inviting Foggy, Karen, and Claire over to his place all at once was for _healing_.

There was no official reason for everyone getting together. Matt wasn’t sure what the others were thinking going into this, but he knew what this meant to him: this was a test to see if things really were normal, in spite of…everything.

Of course, he couldn’t help wondering if he was just setting himself up for failure. He was inevitably going to overanalyze every interaction, and view all the evidence in the light least favorable to, well…everyone. If there was any chance something could be misinterpreted to make it seem like the others were treating him differently because of what they knew, he was sure he’d take it.

But he had to at least try to make this work.

Karen was the first to arrive, armed with wine and some kind of board game tucked under her arm. She shook the snow out of her scarf, hung it up in his hallway, and went to flounce down on the couch.

“Making yourself at home, are you?” Matt observed.

“You invited me,” she retorted, a smirk evident in her voice.

Rolling his eyes, Matt left her to herself, heading into the kitchen for snacks and drinks and also, maybe, for a little bit of space. He busied himself slicing up cheese and apples, only to lift his head when he sensed Karen approach.

“Hey, um, Matt?”

“Yeah?”

She stopped in the entry to the kitchen, fiddling with a bracelet on her left wrist. “I wanted to let you know, I’ve been, um, doing some digging. About Father Sheridan.”

Ice shot through him. “What?”

She rambled on: “I wasn’t gonna tell you unless I found something, I didn’t want you to…I don’t know. I didn’t want to upset you for no reason, I guess. But…I found something.”

His heart started pounding. This big leadup was _already_ upsetting. “Just tell me.”

“He’s dead.” She bit her lip. “Died about five years ago. I just thought you should know.”

He closed his eyes.

Dead.

It really was over, then. He couldn’t hurt anyone else.

The evil in the church wasn’t over, of course. The institution that shielded Sheridan was still alive and well. But Sheridan himself, this one predator…he was gone.

“I’m sorry, should I…should I not have told you? I thought you’d want to hear it, but I know it’s complicated, I’m not trying to assume—”

“No, it’s okay.” He cleared his throat. “Thank you for telling me. It’s just…a lot to process.”

Even if Matt decided to bring a complaint, he’d have to sue the church, not Sheridan himself. Sheridan was out of reach of justice here on earth. He’d have to stand before God and admit what he did. Matt wasn’t sure if that was good enough. He didn’t want to leave it in God’s hands.

At the same time, enacting justice on his own was a burden in and of itself. Funny how easy it was to dole out punishment to people who’d hurt others, but when it came to punishing those who’d hurt _him_ , where was he supposed to even _start?_ Would he go too far? Or not nearly far enough?

Maybe putting it in God’s hands was a relief. In a way.

He cleared his throat. “Well, you should let Brett know that you’re the better investigator.”

“What?”

“I…mentioned Sheridan’s name once. Accidentally. Apparently, Brett took it upon himself to look into it. But he didn’t know he was dead.”

“Oh.” She tucked a strand of hair back behind her ear. “Maybe because he changed his name.”

“What?”

“Yeah. There was another lawsuit, I wanna say…ten, maybe eleven years back? He changed his name after that. Not that the suit was even very public, and if Brett was just doing a surface-level check…”

Matt wasn’t really listening, stuck on the fact that Sheridan had gone and changed his name. As if that could change any of the things he’d done.

She came closer, ostensibly to steal a piece of cheese from his cutting board, but also to gently bump her shoulder against his. “Um. You okay?”

“Yeah. I think so.” He tilted his head at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. “Foggy,” he announced. He sniffed. “He brought food.”

“Yeah?” There was lingering concern in her voice.

He wished it didn’t have a reason to be there. “Chinese takeout,” he informed her lightly, trying to communicate that he didn’t want to dwell on Sheridan anymore.

Karen took the cue. “It’ll go great with your cheese,” she teased.

“Food is food.” He brought the tray out to the living room just as Foggy burst in, bearing even more alcohol and, of course, several heavy bags of takeout. “Are you planning on feeding all of us?”

“Of course not, this is obviously all for me.” Foggy dumped the bags on the coffee table, then reached across to grab Matt, pulling him in for a rough hug. He was giving these more than usual, and Matt didn’t like it because the change came after he finally told Foggy the truth, but he also liked it because…well, it was just such a Foggy thing to do.

Still, Matt extricated himself quickly. “So, um, I also invited Claire, but she said we’re not allowed to talk about anything legal, so if you have anything to say about that, you’ve gotta get it out of your system now.”

“Ew, are you kidding?” Foggy was already digging through the takeout bags. “It’s awful enough thinking about that stuff all day. I should’ve been a butcher…”

Karen bumped her shoulder against Matt’s. “He knows that’s getting old, right?” she stage-whispered.

“Not if you have the right delivery!” Foggy shot back.

This segued excellently into talking about Foggy’s family. His was so big and intact, and Matt knew he and Karen were drawn like moths. It might hurt a little, sometimes, since their experiences were so different, but mostly it was just nice to experience, however vicariously.

Stories of Foggy’s cousins’ exploits occupied them until Claire arrived, dressed not in scrubs for once but in jeans and a thick sweater. She’d technically met Karen shortly after Nelson, Murdock, and Page reformed, but they weren’t more than acquaintances. Matt hoped that might slowly change. He wanted his friends to be more interconnected. It just…felt more secure, that way.

From what he could tell, Karen and Claire seemed a bit wary of each other. Fair enough, he supposed. To Karen, Claire was the mysterious nurse who’d known about Daredevil before anyone else; Claire, meanwhile, seemed to be reserving judgment on Karen.

Alcohol seemed to help the two women warm up. Foggy helped, too: he expertly lobbed an absurd philosophical question (whether domesticated dogs were morally culpable for intentional misbehavior, and whether that meant humans placed an impossible burden on dogs by the act of domesticating them) into the air, and everyone picked sides: Foggy and Claire, who seemed delighted to find themselves in agreement, against Matt and Karen.

Matt and Karen were not inclined to give either dogs or humanity any slack on the issue.

They were no closer to resolving the debate when Matt suddenly cut himself off, head cocked at the sound of _mewing_ from the roof.

Foggy groaned loudly. “No! _No_ , Matt, you are not allowed to chase crime tonight. We agreed, we _all_ agreed.”

“Not crime.” Matt started up the steps.

Karen raised her voice. “At least grab a mask!”

“Are you seriously encouraging him?” Claire asked in disbelief.

“Not crime,” Matt repeated, opening the door and scooping up the cat, whose ears pricked up. She wasn’t purring, clearly too intent on all the activity in the living room.

Tugging the door closed, Matt turned and sensed Karen’s mouth drop while Claire burst out laughing. He trotted down the steps, holding the cat close to his chest.

“She’s so _precious_ ,” Karen gasped, hurrying forward.

The cat stiffened slightly in Matt’s arms, but didn’t try to run away. She didn’t even dig her claws into his sleeves. And when Karen stopped about a foot away and extended her hand, the cat reached out to give her fingers a polite sniff.

“She looks better since the last time I saw her,” Claire observed. “Cleaner. Healthier.”

Matt just hummed noncommittally.

Karen stroked the cat’s head. “She’s so cold.”

“Yeah, winter will do that.”

“Bet she’s happy to be somewhere warm and safe,” Claire remarked, in that pointedly casual way of hers.

Matt shifted his weight. He might as well come out with it. “Yeah, um. Guys, I want you all to meet Ruth, already proving herself to be as fierce and indomitable as her namesake, Justice—”

“Ruth Bader Ginsburg,” Karen blurted out. “I am in the presence of greatness.”

According to Foggy, Karen owned multiple shirts and at least one mug bearing a quote or picture of the Supreme Court justice, so Matt was unsurprised by her reaction.

Foggy, however, paused as if processing all this. “You…you named her,” he said quietly.

“Yeah.” Matt held her a little closer, breathing in her scent and feeling her warmth. “I did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Psalm 27:10 ~ "Even if my father and mother abandon me, the Lord will hold me close."
> 
> So yeah. Those of you who've read my other stories probably know that I love Maggie as a character. There's no excusing her mistakes, but especially after the show killed Father Lantom, I think it's crucial for Matt to have a mother again, and I personally find it so reassuring to imagine the ways that they could rebuild - assuming she continues taking responsibility for her failings and assuming he doesn't feel pressured. But in this story? There was no way I could let them be close without feeling like I was diminishing the betrayal or pushing Matt beyond what would be healthy. At the same time, for Matt to not have her comfort and support when he needs it most was...well, yeah, their scene together actually made me tear up as I was writing. (Which has never happened before.) (Some of you who've read my other stuff may now believe I'm a psychopath to hear that. I promise I'm not!)
> 
> Other than that, I wanted to note that I'm not actually sure that Matt HAS to step back from Samuel's case. I think by this point he has a firm grasp of how his own psychological state is impacting him, he's making progress at therapy, and his law partner knows his history. However, I don't think Matt quite sees how far he's come, and so it would be objectively unethical for him to do something he thinks is subjectively unethical...even if it would otherwise be objectively ethical. Does that make any sense? I also thought it was important to show Matt admitting to someone other than his therapist that what happened to him did continue to impact him, since that was something he resisted for so long. But don't worry, he's not stepping back very far.


End file.
